


Easy In This Blue

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bombing, Fire, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Phobias, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, brief suspected major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Nothing is easy after the war. It's only when he's with Draco, alone by the pool, that Harry feels like he can breathe again. And so he plays along and pretends it's real - until it's not.





	Easy In This Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I actually wrote and finished several years ago, but then I spent way too much time staring at it and eventually convinced myself it was terrible. So, I got to the point where I couldn't stand looking at it for long enough to finish editing it - oops!
> 
> But here it is finally, with a few changes made. Much thanks to FeelsforBreakfast for the original beta, although I've added things since then--all further mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title and lots of inspiration taken from Lorde's "Buzzcut Season." 
> 
> <3

Harry remembers.

xXx

His footsteps clicked in the silence. The portraits were all sleepy and muted; the walls and corridors seemed hollow, starkly contrasting with the thriving fullness of daytime. Everything was quiet now. The echoes had gone to bed.

Wandering the halls of Hogwarts had always been comforting when he couldn’t sleep. Tonight was no different. The flickering light of the torches battled with the darkness of the outside world—no moon was shining tonight, though the sky was free of clouds. Others thought it creepy. Harry thought it soothing. The darkness of the corridors felt like home, and even the shadows felt safer than being trapped in his bed.

Nightmares again. It was inevitable, of course, considering he was here for the Ministry’s (stupid bloody) Commemorative Remembrance Affair for Potter. He had come up with the title himself. None except Hermione had scolded him for the inappropriate acronym.

Peace, though uneasy after the war, had settled snugly around the Wizarding world. Of course the Ministry would want to hold an enormous, ridiculously unnecessary event on the anniversary of the final battle to show everyone just how “good” life was. The triviality left an acrid taste in Harry’s mouth. He didn’t approve of it, especially when the event was outwardly all about him. But then, no one ever really listened to Harry (except concerning stupid acronyms, apparently).

The opening ceremonies had taken an entire day, with a speech from Minister Shacklebolt himself ending the first bout of formalities. Then, there was food everywhere, in quantities larger than three Hogwarts feasts combined. Harry was sure he had heard Hermione muttering under her breath about “those poor house elves!”

And now he was here, after the first day of the week-long celebration, quietly drifting through the corridors and wishing he could have had a normal school experience. Because really, he loved Hogwarts, but some ( _most_ ) of his school memories weren’t the best. His nightmares were tainted with the deaths of his allies and the bloodshed of his foes.

McGonagall had offered to let him and his former classmates go back and repeat their seventh year. For various reasons, few of them had accepted the offer, even though most had contributed to the massive effort to rebuild the school. Harry helped as much as he could, of course ( _since most of the battle had been his fault, anyway_ ), but the thought of returning and completing his NEWTs was repulsive. Not to mention that he’d already forgotten most of the knowledge he would have needed--the only things he'd retained will were the skills that had been necessary for survival in the fight against Voldemort.

Graduation for all of the seventh years, repeats included, had been held early, as to make way for the Ministry’s big event. Harry had witnessed proudly as Hermione presented her speech as Head Girl. He had wiped the sweat from the early summer heat off of his brow, clapping along with friends and surrogate family as Hermione and Ginny accepted their shining diplomas. Hugs all around—particularly teary ones from Molly and both of the Grangers—and it was over.

Harry had not officially graduated that day, but even so, he felt a page slowly rip from the book that was his life. He couldn’t go back now, not with all of the younger students there that practically worshipped him, not without all of his friends. McGonagall had recently started hinting that she wanted him to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position, but even that seemed so foreign as to be terrifying. He hadn’t even taken his NEWTs in the subject—how could he be expected to teach it to others?

He shuffled past another window, another creaking suit of armor. On nights like this, Harry thought about those who were gone, because no one else seemed to anymore. The funerals were done quickly, officially, and pushed out of the way. No one wanted to talk about death anymore, but how could they just forget the people who had died so easily?

That night, he thought about Quirrel. No one really knew what kind of person he had been; his relatives had all died prior to Harry’s first year. Even though Harry had tried, he had never been able to learn anything more of Quirrel’s story, nor of what he could have been like if Voldemort hadn’t tainted him. He was dead now, thanks to Harry.

And Quirrel hadn’t had a funeral.

Harry turned a corner a bit too quickly and immediately smashed into something warm and tall. His throat constricting in fear, he had to hurriedly clamp his mouth shut to keep a scream from escaping--it was only when he remembered that he was awake that he could relax ( _this wasn’t a nightmare, he was okay_ ). The warm tall thing seemed to be a body, one that was alive and breathing, as evidenced by that fact that it was drawling at him loudly.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out, because the drawling had alerted him to one undeniable fact: the person he’d walked into was Malfoy. Part of Harry wasn’t surprised, because Malfoy was everywhere at Hogwarts. But the other part of him felt Malfoy’s presence buzzing on his skin like the crackle of a Stupefy, sharp and alarming. He hadn’t seen him since just after the final battle, since death and destruction and all of the things that had kept Harry awake at night ever since, and he almost wanted to flee.

Malfoy gave him an exasperated look, pulling his nightrobes tightly around himself. “I’m here for the CRAP event, same as you. War reparations and all that rot. And then you—“ he cut off as Harry started laughing. “What the hell, Potter?”

“You got it! The acronym, I mean. No one else but Hermione noticed.” He’s pleased about it even it if it had to be Malfoy, who was now looking at him with more than a little annoyance.

“It was obvious, Potter. I’m walking away now,” he huffed, turning to sidestep around him.

“Wait. Where’ve you been, Malfoy? I haven’t seen you… you know… around.” It felt very strange to be trying to start a conversation with Malfoy, so strange that he wasn’t sure why he was doing it at all. There was nothing he could gain from this, and he wasn’t lonely, really--at least, that’s what he’d been telling Ron and Hermione.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I was in France. Don’t you read the papers, Potter?” The ‘p’s made pleasing pops as they rolled from his lips, tangentially reminding Harry of Snape. A pang went through him. Death had touched everyone, everything, even the things he hadn’t held dear.

“Er, yes. I mean, no. The only paper I read anymore is the Quibbler, and that's because Luna asks me to.”

Malfoy snorted, and Harry opened his mouth to defend Luna from the insults that were sure to come, but Malfoy spoke before he could say a word.

“She’s bloody daft. No matter how many times I try to read that rag, I can never figure out how in the world she comes up with half of the content, much less believes it. I wouldn’t bother if we weren’t friends,” he drawled, casually enough that he could have been speaking of the weather. Harry blinked at him. Malfoy read the Quibbler? Malfoy was _friends_ with Luna? The only time he had seen them interact at all was when Malfoy made fun of her in school, and then of course when she had been trapped in Malfoy’s basement. Harry highly doubted that their relationship had been friendly back then, so how the hell had this happened?

Malfoy was staring at him as though he thought Luna wasn't the only daft one in the conversation. “Close your mouth, Potter,” he muttered, crossing his arms in front of himself. “It’s not that big of a deal.” And though his stance was strong, it seemed as if he was trying to hold himself together. He looked how Harry felt—weary and uncomfortable.

It was reassuring to imagine that someone else felt like that. Even if it was Malfoy.

“Now, as much as I enjoy staring into your open mouth for long periods of time, I should be going now.”

Again, Harry stopped him. “Why were you in France?” His tone was more accusatory than he meant it to be, and he realized the mistake only after he had spoken.

Too late. Malfoy’s mouth tightened into a scowl. “Because I’m a bloody coward, okay? Fuck, Potter, do you always have to have your nose in my business?”

“Er, I didn’t mean it in a bad way…”

Malfoy closed his eyes, sighing roughly, and started walking away. “I know.”

The words hit Harry harder than he’d expected. Malfoy was walking away from him, from a confrontation that would have previously ended in a fistfight, and it was strange and different and Harry didn’t know if he liked it or not.

But then Malfoy’s steps slowed, and he turned around. “Look. I probably won’t see you again, hopefully forever, so… I’d like to offer an apology. I’m sorry. For everything. I’m done with that bigotry shite.” He was staring at the ground as he said it, but Harry could tell that he was sincere.

Surprised but pleased, Harry figured that he should reciprocate. “I’m sorry, too. I hurt you, and I should have said sorry, but I didn’t…” he trailed off, feeling distinctly ineloquent.

“So, can I assume we are both forgiven now, Potter?”

“…Yeah. I suppose so.”

They both had nothing to say for a moment. Strangely, Harry felt some of the tension draining from his body. Maybe this had been bothering him all along, and he just hadn’t thought about it? He didn’t know, but he was relieved.

“So, that’s all. Goodbye, Potter.” Malfoy stepped closer, and Harry caught a glimpse of sorrow in Malfoy’s face. He was confused; shouldn’t Malfoy feel better now, too? Malfoy was coming closer and closer, and Harry wasn’t sure what was happening.

And then Malfoy leaned over and kissed him, and Harry’s world turned over.

And the press of lips was gentle, so gentle. Harry had never kissed anyone except for Cho and Ginny, but this was almost better than that because there was no one alive in the world that had ever made his blood boil like Malfoy had. Then Malfoy pushed him lightly against the wall, catching Harry’s hand on one side and his shoulder on the other. Slowly, slowly he moved his lips against Harry’s, and it was like a dream, a dream in which Malfoy’s mouth was cool and fresh and his tongue was swiping against Harry’s lips in a way that left him absolutely trembling.

And then it was over, and Malfoy was leaving.

“Malfoy… Dra—Malfoy! Why?” Harry called down the corridor.

Malfoy didn’t even bother turning around. “You have no idea, Potter,” Harry just barely caught the answer. But Malfoy doesn’t continue his sentence, so Harry never finds out what he ought to have an idea of.

Then he was gone, and Harry didn’t try to follow him.

xXx

“Hey, there’s a pool here! Great!” Harry exclaims. It’s enormous, both in length and depth, and it looks surprisingly clean for its supposed disuse. Lounge chairs are dotted around the exterior, little counters and benches are angled toward the sun, and there’s a large table with a green umbrella over it in the corner. Harry takes a deep breath and lets the smell of chlorine and grass fill his nose. He can hear the chirping of birds beyond the fence that lines the pool area, and he can’t help but smile. Even though they’d only been here for few short hours, Harry can already tell that he might want to stay here forever.

“Why are you so excited? Of course there’s a pool,” Draco says, but his drawl doesn’t have the usual snarkiness behind it. He’s been a lot nicer ever since they decided to take a break from the world, to leave their troubles behind for just a short while. Harry can’t say he minds it.

“I never got to swim in pools when I was younger,” Harry explains. “I had lessons when I was in primary school, but you know the Dursleys.” He pulls a face and pitches his voice into a sing-song-y tone. “They didn’t want me ‘ _ruining Dudley’s fun_.’”

Draco laughs. “Ah. Well…” A casual shrug, a brush of fingers against blond hair, nearly down to Draco’s shoulders now, and the grin that never fails to set his heart beating faster. “You want to swim, then?” 

“Mm,” Harry nods, still reeling from the intensity of Draco’s smile. They start to strip down to their pants and Draco finishes first, running forward and jumping into the pool as soon as he’s done. Harry moves to follow, but stops near the edge, suddenly uncertain.

“Is it cold?” he asks.

Draco gives him a look. “Come on, Harry,” he drawls, and he looks so good with the water running down his chest and his pants tight against his skin that Harry can’t help but follow, carefully leaving his glasses on the side of the pool before splashing in.

“Oh, fuck, it _is_ cold!” he shouts, making a futile effort to clamber back out. Recognizing that his efforts are in vain, he sullenly turns back to Malfoy, who happens to be laughing his head off. “You said it wasn’t!”

“I never said anything of the sort,” Draco defends himself, holding up his hands (but he’s still smirking, of course—not that Harry minds anymore, after all, Draco smirking is enough to make him hard all on its own. He’s basically a sex god—)

“Harry. Stop that.” Draco shoves him lightly. “Could you not daydream about me when I’m right in front of you? I mean, I know I deserve it, since I’m basically a sex god—oof!” He makes a very undignified squawk as Harry pushes him over into the water.

“Stop reading my mind!”

“I was doing nothing of the sort!” Draco retorts. “Legilimency isn’t exactly something the Ministry looks kindly on, you know, and I’m not about to get in trouble for—”

“No, I mean figuratively, not literally, you dimwit,” and then Harry gives Draco a look and that’s all that it takes for Draco to pull him in by the wrist and kiss him firmly. He presses Harry against the side of the pool, and his mouth is so enticing, even as he mutters “Shut up” between kisses (which quickly turns into “Harry” as Harry slips his hands around his waist).

Everything is good.

xXx

“Harry, wait up!”

Harry groaned internally, stopping mid-stride and turning around. He had been so close to turning the far corner of the hallway when he first saw her, but he’d apparently been too late. This was the second person in as many days that he had run into late at night while wandering the corridors. Damn it, he knew he should have brought the invisibility cloak, but he had forgotten to pack it. He was sure it was sitting smugly in his wardrobe, laughing at him for not remembering.

“Hey, Ginny…” he started, tacking on a smile at the end that he wasn’t sure reached his eyes. She picked up on his misgivings immediately, of course.

“I thought you’d be out here. Why do you look so glum?” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, striding to catch up with him.

“I’m not! I mean, er, I’m perfectly fine.” His ineloquence would be the death of him, really. She frowned at his stammer, setting a hand on her slim hip.

“This isn’t about _us_ , is it? You said it didn’t bother you that I don’t want to date anyone right now, and I know we haven’t talked alone for months, but if you lied to me, Harry Potter—!”

“No!” he responded much too emphatically. He sighed, exasperated at himself, as she quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really, it doesn’t bother me. I already told you I was thinking the same thing, you know, because the war was a bit of a turn-off and everything… Don’t laugh at me, I’m bollocks at this relationship stuff,” he gave her chuckling a disapproving pout.

She let out another giggle, easily, brightly. “‘A bit of a turn-off’, eh, Harry?”

He couldn’t help but smile in response. “Shut it, Gin.”

“Really, though,” she grew more serious. “What’s bothering you? You’ve been weird today.”

“I don’t have anything bothering me,” he scrunched his brow slightly. Weird? He hadn’t been weird today, had he? Sure, he had avoided the general public as much as possible, but didn’t he tend to do that anyway?

Ginny rolled her eyes, though her face was amused. “Fine, I’m sure you’ll tell me later… Come on, let’s keep walking! I have exciting news.”

“What is it?” He fell into step beside her.

“Soooo… I’ve been contracted by the Harpies! I start training in a few weeks—I just found out a few days ago!” She was obviously watching his face for a reaction, and he quickly schooled his expression into a pleased one.

“That’s great… great for you, Gin!”

His face seemed to have passed inspection, so she continued on, chattering with unbridled excitement about how the whole affair had started.

He tried to act happy, but his heart wasn’t into it. Quidditch was great, yeah, but how could she be so happy when it had only been a year since the war had ended? She was caught with her head inside a dream—a lovely dream that was quickly becoming reality, at that. And Harry wasv left struggling, trying to get away from the glue that stuck him to the past.

And it wasn’t just Ginny—it felt like everywhere he looked, people were forgetting the war as best as they could and going on with their lives. Hell, he was pretty sure that there were at least five couples in his year who had gotten engaged since then. He had to admit that he was rather jealous, because he hadn’t managed to do the same, to move on. He couldn’t make himself forget just yet.

Everyone else had made moving on look easy.

Except maybe Malfoy…

Unbidden images of last night’s kiss rose to the forefront of his thoughts, stopping his musings in their midst. Shit, he had been trying not to think about that. But now the image was right in front of him, and the memory of having a warm mouth against his own made his fingers feel tingly and warm.

“Harry! Hello?” Ginny stopped talking, and he snapped out of his reverie, fumbling for a reply. He wasn’t quick enough to speak, however, because something in his expression appeared to trigger a realization on Ginny’s part. “Hang on a moment… Harry, are you _crushing_ on someone?” She stopped and turned to him, eyebrows flying upward.

“What? No! No, of course not, it’s just Malfoy. I mean, I’m not in love with Malfoy! Or anyone, really! I was just thinking about him—not like that though—oh, fuck.” He could tell from her widening grin that he had already dug himself into a bottomless pit.

“Not in love with anyone. Right. Just madly fancying someone, I bet,” Ginny chortled. “Don’t forget, I watched you moon over Cho for a year and a half. I know what it looks like.”

“I’m not, honest,” Harry shook his head. “Really. Something happened, but it’s not… it’s not like that. And it’s completely unrelated to Malfoy,” he tacked on, hoping she would believe him.

“Oh?” she pried. “What was that about Malfoy then, Harry? You’ve never wasted an opportunity to complain about him before,” she pointed out.

He shook his head, trying to head her off. “Malfoy’s just…” a great kisser, his mind supplied unhelpfully. “…aggravating, is all.”

“Somehow I doubt that Malfoy ‘being aggravating’ is what put that expression on your face just now,” she shook her head. “You like him, don’t you?”

“I don’t! Like I said, that has nothing to do with it!” Harry denied it quickly. “Not at all. Besides, I’m not gay.”

“Really?” Ginny raised a sandy eyebrow. “Huh, I rather thought you might be. Guess I was wrong?”

“I haven’t… thought about it, you know? And—and wait, what do you mean, ‘guess you were wrong?’” he spluttered.

“Never mind,” Ginny’s lips curved upward slightly in the ever-so-endearing ‘ha-ha, you’ll never know, will you?’ way, and Harry knew that it was useless to try and badger her into explaining.

He'd never thought about it at all before, so he tried to think about it now. It didn’t seem… bad, per se—the thought of kissing a bloke, at least.

But then again, he’s already done that, thanks to Malfoy.

He tried to imagine the part that came next, and of course his mind supplied Malfoy for his impromptu fantasy, a blond head bobbing down on his cock—

No. He was not going to go there right now, not with Ginny right in front of him. He filed the thought away into the ‘save for later (maybe never)’ drawer in his brain, resisting the urge to shake it completely out of his head while he was at it.

He sighed and decided that the only thing to do was to try to steer the conversation away from Malfoy. “So exactly why are we discussing my lack of a love life?”

“Because I’m your friend, and you just said you’re bollocks at romance, which I can help with. And I know you don’t talk to Ron about this kind of thing because you’re both incapable of having an honest conversation about feelings with each other, and you hate going to Hermione because you know she’ll tell you to just do the most sensible thing and confront whoever it is.”

And of course she was right. He hadn’t been planning on telling anyone for exactly those reasons. Plus because it was Malfoy, but that was a whole different bottle of bat spleens.

“So what happened?” Ginny tilted her head, seeming (mostly) serious this time.

His heart pitter-pattered itself into a frenzy for a different reason now, and he felt the familiar itch of anxiety in his throat. He hadn’t been talking to anyone about his emotions lately, least of all those closest to him—they all had their burdens, just as he did, and it wouldn’t be fair to offload them onto others.

But these were light-hearted feelings, weren’t they? Light enough that if he shared them, they wouldn’t burden someone else. It’d been such a long time since he’d really talked to someone, and Ginny was going to be leaving soon anyhow. It wouldn’t hurt either of them if he didn’t divulge everything, right?

“Fine,” he muttered, glancing around the hall before motioning into a nearby classroom. It wouldn’t do to be overheard, not now, and not ever.

He perched at a desk, watching her close the door before making an attempt at speaking. “All right,” he looked down at his hands, picking at his thumbnail. “So… someone kissed me recently, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. She sank into the chair next to him, resting her chin on her hands. “Wow, really! Good for you, Harry.”

“Did you not hear the part about me not knowing what to do?” he squinted at her.

“Obviously. I was getting to that,” Ginny retorts. “It sounds really unexpected, though. Not because you’re unattractive or anything,” she adds quickly. “Just… unexpected.”

“Yeah, it was,” Harry admitted, already regretting his decision to say anything. He slumped down, sighing. Ginny was probably going to overanalyze it now, and he hadn’t even figured out what he thought about it yet.

“Did you not like it, then?”

Harry flushed. “No… I liked it. But if you ever tell anyone that, I swear I’m going to learn that Italian itchy armpit curse, just for you.”

Ginny snorted. “You’re serious about this, then? Who is this person, anyway?”

“No one. Just some girl,” he lied in more ways than one because Malfoy was not a girl, nor had he ever been simply ‘no one’ to Harry.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Ginny smiled easily. She leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “So what are you going to do about it? Or do you want advice?”

“I have absolutely no bloody idea what to do, so yeah, advice would be great,” Harry sighed, staring at the wall. “I don’t even know if I like hi—er, her—or not.” Not to mention that he didn’t even know whether or not he’d be worthy of a relationship when all of his days were currently filled with melancholy, but that could be left unsaid for now.

“Well, figure that out, first of all,” Ginny suggested. “Then you can decide the rest, yeah?”

“I suppose so.”

“And after that… If you do like them, just try and talk to them,” she continued. “It always worked for me.”

“Okay,” Harry said, leaving off the part where people actually _liked_ talking to her because she was clever and fierce, and he hadn’t really been either of those lately.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Ginny sighed. “You know, I’m a little relieved. I thought you were going to say you really were in love Malfoy.”

Harry started, then had to physically restrain himself from looking too surprised. “Er, why?”

“It just seemed like it from what you were saying at first. He’s never been very good for you, you know? You were always fighting, and getting into trouble… It was a little ridiculous,” she pointed out, idly twisting a strand of hair between two fingers. “Not to mention the amount of drama that would come from kissing him, can you imagine?”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Harry shook his head.

Inside his throat, a lump began to form.

xXx

“How the hell do you have a telly here? These things don’t work around magic,” Harry frowns, a little jealous.

“Hmm? Oh, that thing? I always thought it was just decoration. What’s it do?” Draco comes over, squinting at the telly.

Of course the bloody bugger had never even used it. Harry sighs.

“It’s Muggle entertainment. You’re supposed to watch shows and movies on it—moving pictures that tell a story. Kind of like a cross between Wizarding portraits and a Pensieve, I suppose,” he explains.

“Oh. So you just stare at it the whole time? Sounds kind of boring.” Draco turns away, but Harry finds that he can’t resist pushing the power button, just to see.

“What the hell… it works!” Harry turns to Draco in surprise, then laughs to see Draco flinching from the sudden volume of the device.

“It’s very… loud,” Draco winces, sneering a bit, and Harry quickly turns the volume down.

“Better?” A nod in affirmation. “Good, let’s see what’s on.” Harry searches for and finds the remote, moving to the sofa. Draco follows and sits next to them so they’re touching, thighs against each other, and a little shiver runs through Harry. Ah.

He flicks the channel button, switching from what looked to be a boring soap to a news channel.

“See, this is one of the forms of the news that Muggles have besides the paper,” Harry says, glancing at Draco just in time to see the blood drain from his face.

He turns back and sees it.

The explosion.

They’re showing Muggle footage of it in the background, probably taken on someone’s cell phone, while a reporter interviews a victim of the event. The man is sobbing.

“My wife… she didn’t have a chance! I could never have gotten to her in time… If only I were a bit closer, maybe I could have gotten her out of the way,” he moans, tears leaking down his face as he speaks to the reporter. “I was hit in the arm by debris from the blast,” he motions to a large bandage on his shoulder. “But I would give anything… anything, to have my Marie back…”

“There are other family members of victims who are calling for the perpetrator to receive the death penalty, were he to be caught. What do you think of this, Mr. Pratchett?” The reporter’s voice is smooth, but her face betrays her mask.

The man turns to the camera. “I am in full support. That b****** deserves to die for what he did. For my Marie, and for everyone else… If I could get my hands on him, I swear, I’d make him lose everything he has…!”

The bleeping of the television censor rings in Harry’s ears, but then the screen turns off. He blinks, then looks down at his lap, where Draco’s hand has hit the “off” button on the remote.

“I don’t think I like the telly,” he frowns, and Harry’s stomach flips.

“That’s okay. I never really watched it anyway,” he mumbles, then covers Draco’s hand with his own.

They sit in silence.

xXx

Harry groaned internally as he pushed his plate away, full to bursting from the rich food that the Ministry had provided. Sure, he loved feasts as much as the next person, but feasting every meal for an entire week was not nearly as appealing as it sounded.

“I’m going to go try and walk this off,” he excused himself to Ron and Hermione, who appeared to be having one of their moments and only half heard him.

He left the head table, bee-lining straight for the door of the Great Hall before anyone decided that it would be a good idea to strike up a conversation. Dancing was on the schedule right after dinner, and Harry was glad for any reason to get out of it.

He walked for a while, but stress still ebbed at his mood. He wished that the event was over already, so he could get back to his normal past-time of doing absolutely nothing.

The realization that he was on the floor with the Room of Requirement occurred only when he was right in front of where the doorway had stood. All the times he had followed Malfoy up this very same path must have imprinted the way into his muscle memory. He was tempted to try and open it, and was still waffling on the decision when the classroom door behind him opened instead, and someone nearly walked into him.

Malfoy. Well, this felt familiar. Emotions swirled within him, and he wanted to say something, he was sure, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what.

“What are you doing?” he said instead.

“None of your business. Get out of my way, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, pushing past him.

Harry smelled a familiar mix of lemons and cologne that set his mind racing. Figure out if you like them, Ginny had said. But he still was nowhere near finding the answer to that question, so what was he supposed to do?

“Malfoy,” he started, but stopped when Malfoy sent a pointed glare at him. There was a flash of something else on Malfoy’s face—it almost looked like fear. Why, though? Was it because of the kiss, or because he thought Harry might dislike him for it?

Well, two’s company, as it was said. If Malfoy was scared, then Harry supposed the least he could do would be to admit the same. Anything to say to stop Malfoy from leaving—and the realization that he didn’t, in fact, want Malfoy to leave was more telling than anything.

Fears. What was he scared of? He thought back to earlier in the night, when Ron had nicked a piece of his treacle tart without asking. “I’m terrified of not having enough food,” he blurted out, then almost groaned aloud at his own awkwardness.

But it had caught Malfoy’s attention, and he had paused in his escape to look at Harry again.

He felt encouraged enough to continue. “I mean—I’m not obsessed with food or anything, but… I’m afraid of starving, I guess. And it’s silly, seeing as we were at Hogwarts for years, but I hate it when people steal stuff from my plate. That’s stupid because it’s usually my friends, and they’re harmless, obviously. But my aunt and uncle used to put all of us on these stupid diets so my cousin would lose some weight, and he would take my food when they weren’t looking, even though I barely had anything to begin with. So now it’s something I’m scared of, because it makes me feel… a bit helpless.” He fell silent, studying Malfoy’s shoes, which had turned toward him at some point during his monologue.

“You're babbling Potter. Did I ask for your life story?” Malfoy muttered, but there was no bite to his voice.

Words abandoned Harry, and he could only stare.

But then Malfoy started slowly shaking his head. “I have no idea why the hell I’m telling you this, but I’m frightened…” he cleared his throat. “…of Azkaban, you know. The dementors... My father told me stories. He’s there now, and I never want to be…” Malfoy’s gaze looked wild, frantic, caught between the life of a refugee and that of a criminal. Harry was struck by the intensity, the sadness of it, and somehow he thought that he understood.

He held Malfoy’s gaze for a long moment before Malfoy broke it, nodding distractedly in Harry’s direction before walking away.

Harry felt something between them afterwards, an emotion that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He didn’t know Malfoy like he used to when they were young, but it seemed like they were more similar now than ever, trapped in the past with nowhere to run.

xXx

Harry can’t seem to stay away from the pool, but when he does drag himself away for a day, they go flying. Casual flying, mostly, but one day Draco tosses a Snitch at him, and that’s all it takes to start a Seeker’s game.

Harry hadn’t wanted to try this because he thought it might result in a huge fight. And it did, except this time, when Harry catches the Snitch and they argue, they end up on the ground snogging instead of punching each other.

After a while, Harry rolls off of Draco, trying to catch his breath. He looks up at the sky, partially covered by the trees at the edge of their makeshift pitch. The wind, ever playful, is shifting the leaves artfully about. The sun alternates between hiding and blinding him, and he’s content.

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t hated each other back then?” he says after a moment. Draco is uncharacteristically silent, so Harry turns his head and looks at him. Those grey eyes stare back, and Draco moves his arm over, the one that’s Marked, and curls his fingers around Harry’s hand.

“All the time.”

xXx

The next time Harry inevitably saw Malfoy, it was the middle of the next day by the lake. The CRAP celebrations were still going enthusiastically, and there were a few people milling about, but most of them were at the Quidditch pitch watching a pick-up game between two groups of volunteers. For the most part, he and Malfoy were alone.

He hesitated a few paces away, wanting to continue on with their fragile chatter but having no idea how to even start.

Malfoy had heard him approach, apparently, because he narrowed his eyes at Harry for a moment. He then blinked, turning back to the water and not acknowledging him further. Harry decided that it was a good enough invitation to sit down a few feet away.

He took his cue from Malfoy’s silence, staring out at the lake and thinking about nothing in particular. The early summer sun was warm, comfortable, and soothing enough as to lull him into a sort of calmness that he had forgotten existed. Laying back in the grass, he reflected that this was the first time that he had felt this peaceful in a very long time.

He shut his eyes.

Sometime later, he reopened them, glancing over to see Malfoy glaring at him.

“How can you just do that?” he asked.

Harry blinked. “Do what?”

“Just… lay there, and sleep right in front of me. I’m your enemy!” Malfoy scowled, crossing his arms.

Harry yawned, still drowsy. “You’re not my enemy. You never were, Voldemort was.” Belatedly, he thought about what he had said, and realized that he actually believed his own words. It surprised him—he couldn’t remember ever having thought that about Malfoy before.

“But still…” Malfoy huffed, stunned out of an argument.

“It’s nice out, and I can’t sleep at night. So why not?” Harry sat up, shrugging. “You didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

Malfoy turned his glare toward the lake. “Potter…”

Harry rolled his eyes, laying back down and moving an arm to shade his face from the sun. “You could try to be nice for once, y’know.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I bet you could if you tried hard enough.”

“Just because I can doesn’t mean I will.”

“There, see? It’s like I was saying before. Just because you could hurt me doesn’t mean you will,” Harry shot back smugly.

Malfoy growled, exasperated. “That’s different… shut up, Potter.”

Harry closed his eyes again, wondering at how Malfoy had not yet told him to leave. He was also surprised at himself, however—since when had he had the energy to make conversation, much less have a friendly argument? Lately, every time he had talked to someone, he’d wanted it over with as quickly as possible. When Ginny had finally left their conversation the other night, citing tiredness, he’d felt a wave of relief even though she was a great friend. And she didn’t cause him nearly as much grief as his ‘adoring fans’ did whenever he was in public.

But it felt okay to be talking to someone now. Maybe he should nap before socializing—he even felt more eloquent. Not sounding like an idiot was something he could get used to again.

“Fire,” Malfoy said after a while. A multitude of memories flashed through Harry’s mind: the Room of Requirement, hands clutching at his back, the acrid smell of smoke.

He swallowed. “What about it?”

“…I’m afraid of it,” Malfoy admitted, staring studiously into the water.

“Understandable,” Harry replied. “After… all that happened.”

“I didn’t used to be. I was fine before… you know. But now I can’t even go near it.” His mouth twitched in annoyance. “I feel like such a fool… I’m supposed to be reestablishing my family, and I’m scared to light a candle. I hate it,” he sighed through his nose.

Harry adjusted his glasses, throwing him a sidelong glance. “Why don’t you get over it, then?”

“I… what?” Malfoy raised a brow at him.

“Not—not in a mean way,” Harry explained. “Just start with lighting candles, maybe, and then try to get used to bigger things, like fireplaces. I dunno. So you’re less scared.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “That’s not how fears work, Potter. If it’s so easy, why haven’t you done it?” he ran a hand through his hair. It was past his ears now, Harry noted. He hadn’t ever seen Malfoy with hair so long before.

“I guess I never tried…” Harry shifted. “It’s not like I can pretend to starve.”

“Ask your friends to take food off your plate or something.”

“I reckon that’d work, except that I haven’t told them about how I hate that,” he mumbled.

“I can do it,” Malfoy said, then clamped his mouth shut. “Never mind. This is stupid,” he shook his head, making as if to stand and leave.

“Wait, Malfoy.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Potter,” he stood up.

“We could try it.”

“What?”

“We could try to help each other—”

“Get your friends to do it. Isn’t that what you Gryffindors do?” Draco scoffed.

“Seriously, Malfoy, I could get matches, and help you…” Harry trailed off, frustrated. Why was he even trying so hard? This was just Malfoy, and despite anything Ginny had said about trying to figure out his feelings, there was no way either of them could ever like each other. There was too much animosity between them, even with the war out of the way. And yet…

And yet they’d been having an almost civil conversation, and Harry had felt relaxed.

“What the fuck are matches?” Malfoy asked. At least it was something.

“How do you not know? We used them in Transfiguration first year,” Harry’s brow creased.

“Well yes, you can turn them into needles, I’m not an idiot. But what do they do?” Malfoy looked derisive, yes, but also a little curious.

“You can use them to light fires,” Harry explained. “I thought everyone knew that.”

“I've only ever used magic,” Malfoy countered haughtily. “Whatever. I’ll go along with your stupid idea. Now get away from me, I think the Gryffindor is starting to rub off.” And then he walked away, leaving Harry to wonder how exactly this was going to work and why he had even suggested it in the first place.

xXx

They’re lounging by the pool, laying side by side in lawn chairs, and the sun is turning the sky purple-pink as it sets.

“How is it that you’re so pale, but you don’t burn?” Harry muses.

Draco rolls his eyes. “There are charms for that, Harry.” He stretches, his long, lean arms flexing and bending above his head.

Harry flushes, partially because he should have known about the sunscreen charms and partially because Draco is gorgeous with his shirt off. He leans over and runs a hand down Draco’s side. “Mm. I could live here forever.”

“Don’t say that,” Draco’s pained expression is unexpected. “You have to leave, sometime. You know it’ll have to happen eventually,” he chastises.

“But I could, Draco. I love being here with you. I love flying with you and swimming with you and watching you be picky about your tea. I’ll never go home again—I don’t want to. There’s nothing left for me there.”

“You have your friends. Weasley and Granger and Lovegood and all the rest.”

“Ron and Hermione are getting married. They stare at each other so much that I doubt they even notice I’m gone. Ginny has her Quidditch team. Luna has… whatever magical animals she can find. They don’t need me anymore. I’ve done my job for the Wizarding world. Why can’t I do what I want now?”

“Because this isn’t real, Harry.” Draco’s eyes are flashing.

“Don’t say that!” Harry lashes out. He gets up, striding over to the water and jumping in, then purposefully swimming over to the other side. The conversation had set something inside him aflame, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

He hears Draco behind him, following him, of course. It’s not long before Draco’s arms are trying to encircle him, but he pushes them away. “Go away,” he mutters, and he’s usually stronger than Draco, but somehow Draco has gotten a hold of him and locked him tightly in an embrace.

“Harry,” Draco whispers. They stand there, the water rippling out from where they’d disturbed it.

Eventually, Draco turns him around so that he has to look him in the eyes. Harry struggles half-heartedly, but he doesn’t truly feel like fighting any longer.

“I’m a wanted fugitive, Harry. You can’t stay here forever. They’ll find out sooner or later. And this... being here like this isn’t good for you.”

Harry swallows, then leans forward, resting his head against Draco’s chest. “I know, but… I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

xXx

Harry found himself wearily climbing to the sixth floor a few minutes before ten o’clock, as per a succinctly worded owl that Malfoy had sent earlier that day. He wondered at the lack of people in the halls—he assumed it was because the celebration goers would mostly be retiring to bed now.

He reached the classroom that Malfoy had mentioned. It was empty, a little eerie, a little cold. Spelling the dust off of a chair, he sat down and waited.

The door creaked open promptly at ten. Malfoy stepped in cautiously, as if prepared to throw up a Shield charm at any moment.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Harry felt the need to say. He supposed he could understand why Malfoy was so guarded against him, but it still stung a bit.

Malfoy lowered his wand, but the nervousness at his edges didn’t cease. “Of course not,” he muttered. “Are we going to get on with whatever flobberworm-brained plan you’ve come up with or not, Potter?”

“…Right.” Harry pulled a matchbox out of his pocket, filched from the Transfiguration classroom. “Here, look.” He struck a match on the side of the box. “It’s one of the Muggle ways of making fire. It’s not as convenient as magic is, but it’s a lot more controlled because it’s small and you can blow it out easily.” He demonstrated his words as he spoke, watching the smoke as the flame disintegrated into the air.

“…dumb…” he heard Malfoy mutter, but even so, Malfoy came forward, snatching the box of matches. “So you just take the match, and touch it on the box, and it lights up?” He began tapping the match to the box, quickly becoming agitated when it didn’t work at all.

“You don’t just touch it—you have to strike it. Like this.” Harry reached for Malfoy’s hands without thinking about it.

Malfoy flinched at the first brush of fingers, stepping back quickly. “Potter! What are you doing?”

A flare of annoyance rose in Harry, and he couldn’t stop himself from snapping. “I was just trying to… do you even want my help?” he asked harshly. “I’m not a fucking menace. I’m not going to make you explode just by touching you. Everyone either wants to touch me or avoids me like the plague. Why can’t people treat me normally for once?”

Malfoy stared at him blankly, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm down. It was like Malfoy was trying to aggravate him on purpose—even when he wasn’t trying, it felt like he knew instinctively how to do every little thing that would bother Harry. “…Sorry,” he said eventually. “I… you…”

“I get it, Potter,” Malfoy spat. “You could have just told me if you didn’t really want to do this. Would you quit your act already? I know you love the attention, and everyone fawning over you—“

“What the hell are you talking about, Malfoy? I hate it! I’ve always hated it, and I’d love to be rid of it forever if I could! People always looking at me like that, and trying to talk to me, and—“

“Well how would you like it if people did the opposite? If everyone you had ever known avoided you, and sneered at you, and sent you Howlers? I would love to be you, Potter, everyone would love to be you—“

“Except me!”

They scowled at each other, both breathing heavily from all the shouting. It was Harry who gave into the urge to shove Malfoy. Soon they were rolling on the floor, unbridled anger filling Harry with the urge to embed his knuckles in Malfoy’s face. But Malfoy’s stupid limbs were too sharp, and Harry kept getting elbowed in the gut until he finally relented and rolled away.

They sat on the floor, panting. Malfoy had a bloody lip. Harry didn’t have any visible injuries, but he was sure there were bruises forming on his abdomen.

“You… you really don’t like it,” Malfoy said slowly. “All the attention.”

“Never have,” Harry shook his head.

“…I always thought… I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought, but still,” Malfoy spoke pensively. “You always seemed… glorified by it.”

“Living the famous life… it’s not for me. I’d rather be normal, honestly. I don’t like talking much, especially to people I don’t know, and I hate people knowing all about my life when I don’t even know their names…”

“I guess I can understand that,” Malfoy shifted, dragging himself to lean against the wall by which Harry was sitting. “It’d be nice not having everyone in the wizarding world know what I did.”

Harry leaned his head back. “Yeah, wouldn’t it…” He stared at the ceiling, calming himself down bit by bit. He hadn’t been that angry in a very long time.

It kind of felt good.

Swallowing down that bizarre thought, he turned to look at Malfoy, who was wiping the blood off of his lip. “So… can we have a go at not having a go at each other, you think?” he murmured, half-joking and half not.

“I don’t know if it would work. You’re bloody infuriating, Potter,” Malfoy’s lips puckered.

“You too, Malfoy. But… really. Truce? For now, anyway?”

“…I suppose, if you’re willing to uphold your end of it,” Malfoy relented after a moment.

Harry felt happier than he had expected to, but squashed the feeling down with a promise to examine it later. Too abnormal, too new to think about right now. He reached over to where the matchbox had landed on the floor, discarded early in the fight. “Do you want to try, now?”

“Are you still going on about that?” Malfoy frowned at him.

“Try it.” He persisted in holding the box out to Malfoy, who stared at it for a moment before plucking it from his hand.

“Fine, whatever, Potter.”

“You have to strike it. Run it against the side really fast. The friction makes it light up,” Harry explained.

Malfoy looked at the little box quizzically, pulling a match out. Holding it over the floor, he quickly struck it, and then promptly dropped the match as it lit. “Augh!” he jumped back.

“Aguamenti,” Harry cast, directing the small stream of water to the burning match. The flame fizzled quickly. “See, that really wasn’t bad, was it?”

“It was just… sudden,” Malfoy cleared his throat. “I’ll… I’ll do it again.”

“Try to hold on to it, this time.”

Malfoy tried to strike another match, a little too tentatively. It didn’t light, and he frowned at it, trying once more. This time, when the flame appeared, he flinched but didn’t drop it.

“Good, Malfoy! Now just blow it out when it gets too close to your fingers,” Harry smiled a little.

Malfoy glanced at the flame before blowing it out, setting the match warily on the floor. He looked at Harry and consequently adopted a startled expression. “You’re… I don’t believe you’ve ever smiled at me, Potter. It’s unnerving.” He looked away, an odd look on his face.

“I probably did, the first time we met, maybe. At Madame Malkin’s,” Harry sought to remember.

“Perhaps. I can’t recall, really.” Malfoy then yawned, covering his mouth with a hand.

“You should sleep,” Harry offered. Malfoy shrugged.

“I’d rather not, honestly.”

“Nightmares?”

“How did you know?”

“Me, too.”

Malfoy put his chin in his hands. “It’s shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How am I supposed to help you get over your fears, anyway?” he changed the subject. “That would require eating with you, and I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you, Potter.”

“I guess that wouldn’t work then,” Harry replied, but for some reason, he felt his cheeks flush.

Merlin. There was no way he could be attracted to Malfoy. Except… it seemed he was truly, seriously attracted to Malfoy.

Maybe it was just because of… the kiss. Maybe that was why he was disappointed that Malfoy didn’t want to be around him. Rampant teenage hormones and all.

“…I lied,” Malfoy said, and Harry’s stomach jumped. Definitely rampant hormones. “I’d rather talk to you than talk to no one,” he mumbled, pulling his arms around himself. “Just, not in front of other people.”

And what was that supposed to mean? He didn’t hate Harry, at least, but he didn’t want others seeing him not-hating Harry? “I guess that wouldn’t make people happy, would it,” Harry said quietly.

Malfoy gave him an odd look. “Is that all you care about? Making people happy? No wonder they tasked you with defeating the most evil Wizard the world has seen yet.”

“Y—no, of course not,” Harry said, affronted. “If all I wanted was to please others, I’d be out there trying to talk to everyone, wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t have to be an extrovert to be too willing for other people,” Malfoy muttered, and Harry thought it was the first sentence Malfoy had ever spoken that made Harry undeniably want to kiss him again.

Hoping his desire didn’t show on his face, he breathed an unsteady breath and wondered at his situation. Figuring out his feelings was far more terrifying than he’d expected. And besides… even if he did like Malfoy, he really didn’t think he was cut out for a relationship right now. Even Ginny had mentioned that he looked glum, and if he was really being honest, he felt glum, too.

Malfoy cleared his throat, startling Harry out of his thoughts. He flushed, and was at once very glad that the room was only semi-lit. “I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

Well, that was a relief, because Harry may or may not been thinking about kissing Malfoy again, and he didn’t know if he wanted Malfoy to know that. He bit his lip, trying to return his thoughts to the previous conversation. “You know… If we wanted to eat together… I s’pose it’d have to be later, after the CRAP stuff is over. There are too many people here.”

“Potter, I’m going back to France with Mother after this, remember?”

What? Malfoy was leaving? The thought made Harry feel unexpectedly cold. “Why don’t you stay?” he scrambled for a way to make that not happened, because he needed more time to figure this out—

“I already told you. I’m a coward,” Malfoy spat. “I don’t have anything to do, anyway. I need a job because the bloody Ministry took all of my money. Besides, they’ll find some way to throw me in Azkaban if I stick around, I just know it.”

“They couldn’t. I’d stop them,” Harry countered.

“Are you saying you’d trust my word over that of your precious Aurors, Potter? Please,” Malfoy glared at him.

“I… yes,” he said, and he spoke the truth. He trusted Draco, as odd as that seemed—they were on even ground now.

Not to mention that his year spent doing nothing had taught him that the Aurors were neither his top career choice, nor the most trustworthy people. Yes, there were those who valued justice and fairness, but when Death Eaters were involved it became an entirely different story. He’d heard whispers of forged documents and Confunded eyewitnesses involved in the capture of more than a few Voldemort sympathizers. Everyone had. And he’d turned a blind eye. They had deserved it… right?

But Malfoy… he didn’t deserve Azkaban. Harry believed that from the bottom of his heart. Malfoy was like him, was just a lost boy searching for the key to make his life mean something again.

“Forgive me if I say I don’t think you could override the Auror department, even if you wanted to,” Malfoy looked unoptimistic.

“But… McGonagall could help,” Harry said suddenly, an idea flashing in his head.

“…You’re a bit mad, aren’t you, Potter? What does she have to do with anything?”

“Do you trust her?”

“Well… I suppose she isn’t so bad. Why?”

“You could work here with her. With me. Both of us. She wanted me to teach DADA next year, except I didn’t want to. But the current DADA teacher is only temporary, and Slughorn is thinking about retiring again, too. We could do it, I just have to ask—“ He had gotten up and was already halfway to the door when Malfoy spoke.

“Potter! What the fuck are you thinking? That would never work! Just because you’re disgustingly trustful doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same. I’m a Death Eater. Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

“Were.”

“What?”

“You were a Death Eater. You aren’t anymore,” Harry corrected him. Malfoy crossed his arms and opened his mouth again, but Harry waved his words away. “It’s already been a year, Malfoy. And McGonagall never thought you were a terrible person. I don’t know her that well, but I know her enough to know that she wouldn’t hold a grudge against you for things you did when you were just barely an adult. Let me try, please?”

“Why do you even care, Potter? I know you can’t feel that strongly about this truce thing, and you have no reason to want to be around me at all, so why are you even suggesting this?”

Because I might like you.

“I… don’t know,” Harry answered. “It just… feels right. And don’t make fun of me for saying that. It just does. And if she says no, you can go back to France and I’ll be out of your life. So can I just try?”

Malfoy sighed deeply, standing up and striding toward the door. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled gruffly as he left.

Truthfully, Harry wasn’t sure what had inspired him to make the suggestion. He had never been planning on taking the DADA position at all, no matter how many times McGonagall had hinted. He didn’t want to teach; he wanted to be left alone. So why did he feel like he wanted this more than anything? It was all Malfoy’s fault, bloody Malfoy and his stupid fears and grudges and Mark.

If Harry thought any more about him, he might start thinking about kissing him again, and he wasn’t quite ready for that yet. He decided he had to put Malfoy firmly out of his mind, at all costs.

And he succeeded all the way up until he received an owl in the early hours of the morning, upon waking up from a nightmare, that said, “Whatever, Potter. Do it.”

xXx

“Did I ever tell you about that time I rode the Knight Bus?” Harry asks Draco. They’re in bed, naked, sharing a pillow with their limbs tangled haphazardly over the sheets.

“I’ve heard about that bus. It sounds violent and obnoxious.” Draco’s face twists to show his dislike, and Harry chuckles, rewarding himself with a glare from Draco.

“It is. I’ve ridden it a few times, but only when necessary—I wouldn’t do it otherwise,” he scrunches his nose. Draco takes the opportunity to try and kiss him, and Harry caves momentarily, relenting for a few seconds before breaking it. “Stop, I’m telling a story!”

Draco smirks. “I can tell you a better story, about how I’m going to fuck you right now…”

“We just did that!” Harry objects, flushing.

“So?” Draco raises and eyebrow and simultaneously pushes his obvious erection into Harry’s thigh.

“Can I finish my story first?” Harry complains, nonetheless feeling his groin throb in response.

“Fine. You have one minute,” Draco drawls. “After which, I am going to completely demolish you, Harry Potter.” The last words are a murmur against his neck, and Harry shivers.

“Okay, okay. Anyway, this was a while ago, before CRAP happened.” They both pause to chuckle. “I was sitting on the top level of the bus, because there are usually less people up there, and I was minding my own business, yeah? But guess I wasn’t feeling too happy that day, so this group of people came up and started yelling at me about how I shouldn’t look so sad when I’m the savior of the Wizarding world and that I was being a bad role model.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Sounds infuriating. What did you do to them?” Draco murmurs, tapping the seconds on the inside of Harry’s thigh.

“I wasn’t going to do anything. But my temper decided for me, I guess, and they ended up with elephant heads for a while.”

Draco smirks. “That must’ve been amusing. Did you get scolded by the Ministry?”

“Nah, for some reason they never found out it was me. I’m betting that they didn’t even open their mouths about what had happened after they were righted again, on account of my status or something.” Harry shrugs, suppressing a moan as Draco starts nipping at his neck. “Everyone thinks they have a connection to me, that they can make me change… ah… when you’re… the only one… Draco…”

His words are cut off by Draco’s smiling lips as he proceeds to snog him thoroughly. The hand that was on his thigh moves to his cock, and Harry’s lost.

xXx

“And is this your condition for accepting the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, Mr. Potter?”

Harry gulped. “…Yes.”

“And you do realize that you two will have to remain here over the summer for training in a largely empty castle? Do you think you will be able to refrain from seriously maiming each other?”

“Uh… Yeah. I think we’ll be okay.” He hoped.

McGonagall looked at him for a moment, seeming very confused indeed. But after a moment, she shrugged and reached down to pull open her desk drawer, taking out a piece of parchment. She pushed it toward him; it was titled ‘Rules and Regulations for Hogwarts Professors’.

“Very well,” she spoke. “I will draw up both of your contracts by the end of the week. Despite not having a full seventh year, you two were both excellent in your respective fields of application, and there’s nothing a little extra training will not fix,” McGonagall stated primly. “That will do, Mr. Potter, and thank you for accepting the position. You may be excused. And do send Mr. Malfoy up so that I may speak with him.”

xXx

“I still don’t understand why the fuck we have to share a room,” Malfoy fumed, unshrinking another box and tearing it open angrily. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“For the last time, Malfoy, this is a suite, not just a room. We only have to share the common kitchen and living area and the loo. They said it was for ease of training, anyhow.”

“That’s a load of tripe and you know it, Potter. I’m sure this is just so they can monitor us, and the minute we start fighting, they’ll kick me out of here—“

“McGonagall wouldn’t do that!” Harry put down a shrunken box, turning to face Malfoy with his arms crossed.

“How do you know, Potter?” Malfoy sneered.

Harry fumbled for an answer, thrown off course. “I thought we agreed not to fight,” he said slowly.

“And you honestly think that’ll work for the whole summer, much less the school year?” Malfoy huffed.

“Well… yeah. I mean, we were getting on fine last week…”

“That’s one week out of the, what, eight years that we’ve been acquainted, Potter?”

“But if we both try…”

Malfoy threw the blanket he had been holding onto the floor, sitting down on the sofa with a huff. He put his head in his hands. Tentatively, Harry came to sit beside him.

“Look, you’d be fine if I was anyone else, right?” he asked.

“I suppose,” Malfoy mumbled.

“Then why don’t we… start over? Pretend we’re completely different people than we were.”

Malfoy gave him a derisive, ‘are you serious?’ eyebrow raise. “That’s a load of bollocks, Potter. It won’t work. Too much history between us.”

“Well then… I dunno.” Harry’s ego smarted from having his idea shot down, and he stared at the fire.

He wanted this to work more than anything he’d wanted in a long time. He had started to… crave Malfoy’s presence, in a way. With Malfoy, he slipped almost into the person that he’d used to be, a person that felt things and wanted people and possibly even wanted Malfoy.

“Harry.”

Harry whipped his head around to look at Malfoy, his heart suddenly beating twice as fast. “What?”

“I was just… trying it out. Since you’ve always been Potter before, you know.” Malfoy was determinedly not looking at him, and he might have been flushing. An odd shiver went through Harry’s body at the thought.

“Um…” Oh God—“Draco.” He swallowed, the name feeling sticky and wonderful in his throat. “I… that could work.”

Malfoy… Draco… tugged his arms around himself as if he were scared. But when he turned to Harry in the next moment, a small smile was visible on his face.

Fuck. Harry was most definitely fucked, because a shock of heat swept through his body, ending decidedly in his groin. Merlin, he hadn’t felt wanting like this since Ginny, since before he’d been broken and reborn—

Draco was looking at him funnily.

Harry got up quickly. “Um… boxes! Yeah, I have to go pack in my room, I mean, unpack...” he stammered out, grabbing a random box.

“That’s mine,” Draco stopped him. Harry glanced down at it. Predictably, ‘Draco Malfoy’ was emblazoned clearly across the top.

“Oops.” He dropped it, picking up another one with his own name on it. He caught sight of Draco, who looked slightly wounded.

“Did I say something?” Malfoy asked.

“No, I just want to get unpacked and everything. Um. For… our new life. As coworkers and stuff.”

Draco stared at him, his mouth twisting uncertainly, but shrugged and picked up one of his own boxes. “All right, Harry.”

Oh. There was his name again. The electricity ran through his body—straight from Draco’s lips to Harry’s cock.

He had to escape then, walking quickly to his room and closing the door. He plunked his box down on the floor, not even bothering to open it because—Draco. Merlin. Pressing his palm to his erection, he willed it to go away because he did not fancy having a wank right now.

More disconcerting than his embarrassment was the certainty in the back of his mind that knew he wanted Draco, knew that Draco’s voice saying ‘Harry’ was all he needed to lose himself to the rushing of blood in his body…

He had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down, slumping onto his bed. Figure out if you like them, Ginny had said. Did he like Draco? He wasn’t yet completely sure. Was he sexually attracted to the other man? Yes, apparently very much so.

The flames dancing in the fireplace caught the corner of his eye, and he looked over, jumping when the flames suddenly turned green.

“Oy, mate! Fancy coming over for dinner? We have news!” Ron’s grinning face popped into the grate.

Harry hastened over to kneel at the hearth, heart still pounding at the sudden interruption of his thoughts. “Uh… I was planning on eating here,” he said without really thinking (because Ron could have caught him wanking just now, and how bloody embarrassing would that have been? He resolved to change the wards on his Floo as soon as he got the chance.)

Ron’s expression fell.

Wait, what had he said? Oh—“…I’m sure the professors wouldn’t mind if you two came over, though,” he assured quickly.

“Great! I won’t say no to Hogwarts food, y’know. Lemme tell ‘Mione, and we’ll be over in a mo’.”

“All right,” Harry nodded, and Ron blinked out of the Floo.

Then he thought about what he had just agreed to. Shit, Ron and Hermione still hated Draco, didn’t they? What was he going to do?

His heartbeat quickened. This was why he’d been avoiding social situations lately; they were too awkward, too conflicting because everyone wanted him to think what they thought and that just wasn’t happening…

He was torn between warning Draco and staying put, but the flames crackled and became infused with green before he could decide.

Hermione stepped gracefully through the Floo. Ron whooshed in behind her, stumbling slightly upon landing. “Hey Harry!” Ron gave him a bear hug, thumping him on the back, and he tried his best not to wheeze.

Hermione grinned, giving him a much less cringe-inducing embrace. “I won’t ask you how you are, since we just finished seeing each other for an entire week,” she winked at him, and he smiled back at her.

“Thanks… I’ve really just been trying to straighten out everything job-related. Pretty boring,” he shrugged, then glanced at Ron, who seemed to be fidgeting excessively. He had a pretty good idea of what Ron was about to say, but he supposed he should be polite and ask nonetheless. “All right, out with it. What’s the news?”

“We’re getting married!” Ron burst out. Hermione looked appropriately amused at his enthusiasm, holding her hand out for inspection. Harry gave the appropriate ooh’s and ahh’s over the ring (which really was quite pretty—simple, just as he supposed Hermione would like).

Married. It wasn’t the most surprising thing in the world, but it was still a slight shock to actually hear the words from Ron’s mouth. His two best friends in the world were getting married. Another new beginning, another couple his age making their dreams a reality. He swallowed down a sudden and potent thrum of loneliness, hugging them both at once.

“I’m happy for you.” And for Ron and Hermione, he meant it, even though his voice had threatened to crack. They deserved nothing other than happiness.

Ron caught hold of his soon-to-be-wife’s hand, sharing a smile with her before addressing Harry again. “Harry, I hope you’ll be my best man? Since you’re my best mate, you know,” he added, seemingly trying to hide his nerves with a lighthearted tone of voice.

“Of course,” Harry had no problem accepting. It was Ron, after all.

“Great! Let’s eat, then,” Ron gave him another thump on the back, heading for the door.

“Hang on! You two should know something…” he stopped them, swallowing nervously.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione pushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, sliding her other hand into Ron’s.

Well, here went nothing. “There’s someone else in training this summer, and… it’s Draco. He’s going to be the new Potions professor. I have to get along with him now, so… er, be nice?” he asked, cringing internally.

Ron scowled. “You call him Draco now? Yuck.”

Hermione elbowed him. “Shove off, Ron. Of course we’ll be nice to him, as long as he’s not overly awful to us,” she agreed sensibly.

Thank goodness.

They went to dinner, where Ron and Hermione gleefully announced their engagement amid applause from the group of gathered faculty. Talk of the wedding dominated the table afterwards, for which Harry was glad. It didn’t require much input on his part, and he was free to simply observe and nod along.

Draco ended up next to Harry, with Ron and Hermione a little ways down. Having mouthed ‘be nice’ at Draco early on in the meal, Harry relaxed, because from then on Draco was on his best behavior. He even went through the trouble of asking Hermione a few polite wedding questions.

Silverware clinked, and mugs of pumpkin juice were emptied and refilled. Everything was going swimmingly until mid-dessert, when without warning, Draco stole a bit of treacle tart off of his plate.

What?—anxiety surged through his system, and he gritted his teeth. What the fuck was Draco getting at?

But a few seconds later, Harry remembered that he had in fact asked Draco to do that. Adrenaline shot through his system nonetheless, and he had to force himself to calm down. Breathe, Harry.

Once he felt suitably calmed, he surreptitiously peeked around the table. Good. No one had noticed, and no one was even looking at him, except Draco.

“You all right?” Draco asked him tentatively. Harry nodded, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, I sort of forgot about that. Thanks, though,” he replied, swallowing nervously. Now that he thought about it, sharing one’s food seemed far more romantic than he’d first anticipated, making him anxious for a very different reason.

But then Draco surprised him with a full on grin that made Harry’s heart race.

He was so fucked.

xXx

“I found some cola,” Harry returns to the poolside from the kitchen with two bottles in hand. “There doesn’t seem to be a lot to eat here though, besides what we brought with us. We might have to buy food.” He sits next to Draco, who’s leaning back casually on a bench meant for two.

Draco takes the proffered bottle, twisting the top open and taking a swallow. “Ugh, what is this stuff? Why do we even have this here?”

“I dunno, it’s your ancestral vacation home, not mine,” Harry shrugs. “It’s a Muggle drink. You know, there’s a lot of Muggle stuff here for a not-exactly sympathizing family,” he raises his eyebrows.

“This used to be my grandfather’s sister’s home. Her son, who inherited it, ended up marrying a Muggle, and they lived here before they were disowned,” he shrugs. “At least, that was what I was told. Anyway, this stuff is disgusting, you can have it.”

Harry takes a sip of his own, scrunching his nose up. “No wonder, it’s flat.” The cola tastes burnt-out and unappetizing, and Draco vanishes his drink while Harry squints at his own for an expiration date.

The bottle abruptly disappears from his hand. “What was that for?” he asks, frowning.

“That was because I can think of a much better use for your hands,” Draco winks at him. Harry rolls his eyes, but scoots closer to Draco as Draco sets his wand down on a table.

“Mm…”

xXx

“Easy, easy does it… Good. Now once more, Harry.” Harry’s mentor, Professor Langley, allowed him a moment to relax his shield charm and catch his breath before sending another barrage of curses at him.

“Good, Harry. I think your dueling skills are officially up to par.”

Harry let out a relieved breath. They had been training for over a month now, and dueling had been one of the hardest parts, as he wasn’t exactly in shape after a year of lying about.

“Moving on, I want you to try to teach me the Recupersanguis spell.” Langley sat down in one of the classroom desks, looking up at Harry primly, as a student might. Harry suppressed a snort, grabbing a textbook and rifling through to the relevant section on reversing blood-dispelling curses.

“All right, the Recupersanguis is used to counter certain nasty curses that attempt to remove blood forcibly from the body. It can be the difference between life and death when handling a cursed artifact, so pay attention.” He stood sideways, so that Langley could see his wand motions. He then demonstrated the movement several times, drawing the wand into a circle followed by a sharp jab. “Make sure that the ‘cup’ part of the spell happens when your wand is at the top of the circle, and that the ‘guis´ precisely lines up with the jab.”

“Like this?” Langley purposely did the movement wrong. Harry shook his head and made corrections, and they continued back and forth while Langley “fixed” what he was doing wrong.

A knock on the door halted them in their discourse. Draco popped his head in, then opened the door all the way upon seeing the contents of the classroom.

“Still scared to walk in here?” Harry teased.

“Of course I am! I’m not about to get plowed down by whatever magical creature you’re practicing on next,” Draco scowled, and Harry and Langley guffawed loudly. They had been working on doxies last week, which were surprisingly hard to keep contained (as evidenced by Lockhart in second year). Draco had opened the door just in time for a full on pelting as the creatures made a run for it.

Harry quelled his laughter. “I assume it’s dinner time?” he asked. Draco nodded affirmatively, still scowling, though in an obviously lighthearted manner. “May I be dismissed, Professor Langley?”

“Of course, Harry. I’m quite hungry myself, but you go on ahead. I’ll clean up.” Langley gestured to the mess that they had made that day. Books were scattered around the room from that day’s research, and several desks were broken and exhibited charred tops as a result of their dueling. Harry smiled appreciatively.

“Thanks!”

As their footsteps echoed in the corridor on the way to the Great Hall, Draco pulled out the matchbox he had taken to carrying with him, lighting a match and staring at the flame. “I wish Slughorn was as brilliant of a mentor as Langley is.”

“Slughorn’s not bad, per se. He’s just…”

“Slughorn,” they both finished the sentence with a snort.

“Yeah, I know,” Draco rolled his eyes. “And I’m learning loads, but still.” He blew out his flame.

They reached the Great Hall, where Harry found an unfamiliar owl awaiting him at his usual spot. “Now who are you from?” he murmured, taking the letter and offering it a bit of food as he sits down.

“Who sent it?” Draco echoed, already putting food on his own plate.

“Ginny, it looks like,” Harry peeked at the top of the letter, then sighed as he took in the length of the scroll. Ginny’s letters rivaled Hermione’s in wordiness at times. “I’ll read it later,” he shrugged, stuffing it in his pocket and serving himself. Draco immediately stole a meatball, and Harry felt proud of himself when only a small twinge of dismay ran through him. He grinned at Draco, who unexpectedly grinned back—it was possibly the first time Harry’d seen him smile in a week or so, as he still wasn’t quick to display his happiness.

Inwardly, Harry sighed, as Draco’s smile always did things to him.

“Is it working?” Draco asked. “You know, the food thing?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of a relief, you know? Something I thought I would never be rid of… How are you with fire, now?”

“I think I’m okay,” Draco shrugged. Once he had mastered matches, he had moved on to lighting candles and even torches. Finally, they had started acclimating him to using Incendio again, and though his progress was slow, he had eventually mastered it.

“Just okay?” Harry challenges, munching on a slice of garlic bread.

“Fine, I’m doing fan-bloody-tastic,” Draco pulled an exasperated face at him. “You Gryffindors always want to talk about your _feelings_ , don’t you?”

Harry elbowed him. “We do not, stop generalizing,” he quipped.

They finished their meals quickly. The other teachers had already been in and out, Harry noted—probably because they didn’t have protégés to instruct, and Slughorn always took dinner in his rooms. Langley appeared only as they were about to stand.

“Good night, Professor Langley,” they both intoned, and he waved a hand at them as he quickly attacked the food.

“He’s an interesting bloke,” Harry mused as they made their way to their suite on the fourth floor, pulling out Ginny’s letter and skimming it over. He watched Draco salute the suit of armor in front of their door, then tap its left shoulder three times with his wand, the wall swinging open almost immediately afterwards.

“I can see you growing up to be like him,” Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry gave a sharp laugh.

“No way. He’s more like Ron than me, I think. Anyway, we’re already adults.”

Draco shrugged. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he said, and Harry couldn’t help but agree.

They sat on the sofa, which Harry frowned at for a moment. It felt as though it had narrowed: a month ago, they could have sat on either end with two other people between them, but now they were almost touching. Not to mention that the other chairs in the room, which they had used less frequently, had seemed to disappear.

“Did you shrink the sofa?” he asked Draco.

“No, I thought that was you being a Gryffindor and wanting to enhance our friendship by eventually forcing me into your lap,” Draco smirked, and Harry flushed.

Draco, in his lap…

“I didn’t do it either,” he protested. “Besides, not everyone wants to cuddle with you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Draco shot him a slight glare.

“I was almost Sorted Slytherin,” Harry retorted, and Draco’s eyebrows leapt sky-high.

“What? I was speaking rhetorically, you know… but really? That’s a shock. No wonder you’re clever, sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Even Draco’s compliments were disguised as insults. Harry chuckled, staring down at the fire. “What about you?”

“What about me? I was always going to be a Slytherin,” Draco said.

“No, not that. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You’re asking my secrets, now? Don’t you know that Slytherins never share parts of themselves unless it gives them an advantage?”

“I already told you one of mine!” Harry frowned, crossing his arms.

“Fine. I once vanished your pants when you were showering in the Quidditch locker room,” Draco says, hiding a smirk.

Harry squinted at him for a moment. Then he remembered, gasping. “So that was you! Hermione wouldn’t let me go try and Hex you for it, even though I was _sure_ … anyway, that’s not a real secret.”

“It counts. If you want more, you’ll have to tell me more of yours,” Draco grinned smugly. Harry groaned.

“Fine. I died during the Battle of Hogwarts, and I came back to life to kill Voldemort.”

Draco’s mouth falls open. “Really? How does that even work?” he asked. “You’re not… a ghost,” he said, reaching a hand out to touch Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure myself, to be honest,” Harry shrugged, throat tightening at the brush of Draco's fingers. “I died, and there was a part of Voldemort in me, but I chose to let that die without me… so I came back.”

Draco slid his hand away, and Harry felt the loss deep in his skin. “I don’t… I don’t really have anything that compares,” Draco admitted. “Except, well, feelings, I guess. And you don’t really want to hear about those.”

“I do,” Harry corrected him. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind,” he rephrased, not wanting to sound eager.

“Bloody Gryffindor,” Draco snorted. “Fine. I’ve told you most of my fears, but… well… I’m worried the war will never leave me, I suppose,” he said softly. He pulled his legs up onto the sofa, shrinking down into himself. “It haunts me, and people still stare at me all the time, reminding me of it… It’s around me in everything I know, and I can’t escape it.”

He gave Harry a look of despair, and Harry understood. Draco really was like him, in the most definitive way possible.

“I… me, too.” He sighed. “Everyone else is happy, and moving on, even people who have lost everything. And I can’t, and it makes me so jealous… and sad, I guess. And the worst part is that it feels easier to be so blue like this, even though I have to pretend around everyone else.”

Draco nodded along with Harry’s words. “And it’s not like I can talk about it, because I deserve everything I’ve gotten…”

“I feel alone.” They stared at each other tentatively, vulnerable. Draco shifted his arms, taking a shaky breath.

“Does that count as one of your secrets?” he asked.

“…I suppose it does,” Harry said. He hadn’t really been keeping track.

“Then… I owe you one more,” Draco continued.

Harry nodded. “If you want to be fair, then yeah, I guess, although I don’t really ca—“

“Shut up, Harry,” Draco stopped him. “I… don’t freak out, okay?” He folded his arms around himself, shifting anxiously.

“What is it?” Harry murmered.

“It’s… Seriously, don't freak out.” Draco closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

And then Draco opened his eyes and said something that turned Harry’s world upside-down. “I’ve been in love with you since sixth year.”

Oh.

Harry’s heart stopped.

Of all the things that he could’ve expected, it wasn’t that. He never would have thought—okay, he had thought, but only in daydreams late at night, while he was trying to fall asleep after nightmares and could hear Draco shifting on the other side of the wall. But to think that, while he had been struggling with just the thought of being attracted Draco, Draco had loved him?

Feelings rushed around in his body, buzzing and tingling as he tried to pin them down. He knew he was _attracted_ to Draco, could admit that, but a relationship was something different entirely. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, not in the state the war had left him in. Not to mention that half of his friends didn’t even like Draco as a person, even though he did, quite a lot… His mind flashed to the letter in his pocket, to Ginny’s off-handed phrase that had jumped out at him immediately upon reading it: “Did you ever start talking to that girl who kissed you?”

Ginny had said Draco wasn’t good for him, when they’d talked about it before.

There was no way anyone would ever approve.

Still… he thought about the times where Draco had touched him, like the time last week when Draco had cast a fully flaring Incendio and had proceeded to hug him, and he had felt as if he were on fire with the intensity of his emotions. And then back to the kiss, where this had started, where he had begun to think of Draco in that way at all. It would be worth it, to feel like that, to accept the love that Draco was offering and bask in it forever.

But then the unsettling thoughts began to bombard him, just as they’d been doing for the past year. He wasn’t worth the effort that loving him would cost. He was a person torn in two—one half lost the night of the final battle, the other half left torn and flimsy. Seeing that many deaths didn’t leave one right in the head. Even if Draco loved him, he’d be loving an empty person, and Draco deserved so much better.

And… and… Harry didn’t even know if he liked boys or not, did he? He’d thought about it, even fantasized about it, but now his mind only whirled back further, back to Uncle Vernon cursing queers and their abnormalities with the same tone in which he talked about magic…

The conflict of his emotions set him trembling.

“…Harry. Say something,” Draco spoke softly, his voice cracking. Harry looked at him, into his eyes—he looked as terrified as Harry felt, and vulnerable—

“I don’t know,” he blurted out.

They sat in a shocked silence for only a second before Draco’s face crumpled. “Okay,” he whispered, dragging a hand through his silken hair and looking as if he were ready to cry.

Harry backtracked—no, no, he didn’t want to make Draco unhappy ( _please don’t cry_ ). But he couldn’t do this with a good conscience, couldn’t give Draco this shade of the person he had once been, because Draco didn’t deserve that.

“I like you,” Harry interjected quickly, before Draco could try to leave. “I like you. A lot. But I don’t know if… I’m the best person for you.” He shook his head slowly. “And I… I’ve never dated a boy before, and I’m just not sure… I’m not… a whole person. I let people die, Draco, and I’m not ever going to recover from that.” Thoughts that had been perfectly formed in his head came out sounding weak and pathetic when paired with his voice. Draco was staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Why can’t you let me decide if you’re good for me or not? Why are you letting anything stop you? I kissed you, and you fucking liked it. You know you did,” Draco’s voice cracked.

Harry opened his mouth, then stopped, unsure of himself. “I can’t…” he trailed off.

The frown slowly evaporated from Draco’s lips. He leaned over, inch by inch, and slid his arms around Harry’s neck, resting his head on Harry’s chest.

Harry brought his arms up around Draco, because what else was he supposed to do?

“You’ll let me do this…” Draco murmured, and he was actually crying now. “But you don’t want me. You don’t want me enough to fucking get over yourself.”

Harry was on fire, he was burning up with the sadness and shame and yes, the want in his veins. But the wanting wasn’t enough, it really wasn’t, because what was this wanting when compared to the blood on his fingers, to the monochromatic life that he had come to lead?

“Draco,” he pressed his face into Draco's shoulder. “You’re my favorite friend, you know? I just… can’t.” He was shaking too. It had been a long time since he had felt any emotion other than grief as strongly as he did now.

“Can you try to think about it at least? For me? I’ve been trying, you know, to heal and to be different, to be a person you’d actually want in your life.” Harry could feel Draco shaking his head. “I know I'm whining like a fucking baby, but… If it’s not me that’s the problem, then try. Please?” Draco asked, voice muffled.

Harry nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “All right.”

Embers went to ashes in the hearth in front of them, and the ashes were Vanished, never to be seen again.

xXx

Nothing is working right.

The TV has stopped turning on. It’s not too big of a deal, because they didn’t watch it anyway (every station showed the news, and all of the news involved the bombing). But the drawers don’t want to seem to open either, and they’ve both somehow misplaced their broomsticks.

Even the pool is running cold. It feels like there’s less furniture in the house, too, and Harry thinks he’s going crazy.

But Draco is there, and he still tastes hot and sweet like before. Draco holds him, and tells him that it’s all okay. Draco is all he needs.

Draco is all he needs.

xXx

Days ticked by, lessons with Professor Langley, meals with their new colleagues. Harry was almost beginning to feel happy.

If someone had asked, he wouldn’t have said he was dating Draco. Harry had turned him down, after all. But they stayed up far too late and talked of everything and nothing almost every night. Sometimes Draco laid in his lap, and Harry would run his hands through blond hair that was growing longer every week.

And Harry’s heart threatened to crack his ribs every time Draco touched him.

Harry had taken to looking for Draco’s name on the Marauder’s Map when he wasn’t in the suite.

He wasn’t obsessing. Really. Just curious, was all.

Most of the time, Draco was in the dungeons, presumably working on potions. One time, Harry spied him in the kitchens. He contemplated going down and joining him, but decided against it—if Draco wanted him there, he would have asked to hang out after dinner. He wasn’t going to intrude on a potentially private moment.

And then, one time, Draco was nowhere to be found.

Harry clutched the Map, scanning it over for the fifth time. There weren’t that many people in Hogwarts over the summer, only the staff, so it wasn’t difficult to find all of the little footprints. Draco was missing.

He toyed briefly with the idea that Draco had left the grounds, but he knew from the start that it wasn’t the solution.

Draco was in the Room of Requirement.

Harry’s heart started beating faster. The Room had never been cleared—it had been deemed too dangerous to try to recover. The threat of Fiendfyre had been enough to keep any wandering students away.

He leapt off of the sofa, leaving the Map on the coffee table as he raced down the corridor. It wasn’t long before he was pacing in front of the blank wall, half curious and all sorts of terrified about what he was going to see.

_I need the place where everything is hidden._

The door appeared. Harry swallowed thickly, reaching for the handle and twisting it open.

He looked in. Draco was standing in the middle of the vast room, and in the room was a thick, black darkness. No fire, no towers of abandoned objects—just emptiness.

Harry breathed a relieved sigh, wandering in toward Draco. “What’re you doing?”

“Thinking,” Draco shrugged, turning around to face Harry. “This is where I started being afraid. I thought maybe if I came back, it’d help. And I wanted to see…”

Harry nodded, his heart clenching in response. Draco was still hurting inside, he knew, because so was Harry. “Did it help?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Draco murmured, and turned back around. His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a large sigh, and then he lifted his wand and cast “Incendio!”

A burst of flame erupted from the wand, and he didn’t even flinch. He held the spell, watching it diligently as it filled the room with light. Harry could feel the heat of it; he had to shield his eyes from the brightness.

“I’m okay,” Draco whispered, as if he were trying to convince himself more than anything. “I’m okay.” He trailed his wand upwards, so that it pointed at the ceiling, and Harry watched as it lit the area like the sun.

Harry was beginning to smile, because Draco was maybe okay and that was better than anything—but then something went wrong, and Draco’s arm faltered.

The flames spluttered and died. Draco lowered his wand, gasping, then shouted the spell again, sending another burst of fire into the air.

And a flame came out. But everything still wasn’t right because this time, the flame was too big.

The fire bloomed outward, up and sideways and backwards and Harry was paralyzed because the fire was coming for them, coming for Draco. Draco let go of the spell, but it was too slow, too slow, and the fire chased him and caught him as he turned to run.

No no no no.

Draco was on fire, his hair was on fire—Harry had saved him from it before, but that was before everything, back when Harry had been a better version of himself. But now Harry can’t think, can’t breathe, his heart’s lodged itself in his lungs. He’s helpless beyond repair—he can’t even speak, let alone cast aloud.

But his body could somehow still move, and before he knew it he was spelling water wordlessly in Draco’s direction.

This fire was not Fiendfyre. The flames went out with ease, and God, oh God, he could have lost him.

Then there was no more danger. Except Harry’s heart was still stuck, and he didn’t know how to fix it—“Draco…” he gasped. His voice came out crackly and stiff. Draco turned to look at him, eyes wide, mouth turned down. The silence stretched out between them as water slowly dripped from Draco’s body.

And then Draco laughed. It was a desperate laugh, and Harry didn’t know what to say, but then Draco came to Harry and hugged him, held him tightly. Harry could feel tears start to drip down his cheeks. He felt paralyzed, too hurt to wipe them away. All he could smell was ash.

“Harry… it’s okay, Harry,” Draco murmured in his ear. “I’m not hurt. It’s okay. I’m not scared anymore, Harry…”

“You… you were on fire,” Harry’s voice broke. “What h-happened?”

“I don’t know, but it didn’t hurt me,” Draco repeated, pulling back just far enough to show Harry that the fire had only singed the ends of Draco’s hair, leaving it short and scorched in places. “I’m okay, really.”

“But…” Harry swallowed a sob.

“No, honestly.” Draco’s mouth tightened, his face growing somber. “It… it was getting to look too much like my father’s, anyway, don’t you think?”

Then he reached up, aimed his wand at his head, and cast a cutting spell. Harry watched, eyes wide, as it sliced cleanly at his hair and sent the charred bits to the ground all at once. The blond locks were at an uneven angle now, but they were no longer burnt. “There. It’s back to normal, now.”

Harry stumbled forward, falling back into Draco’s arms. He couldn’t stop crying. God. Draco.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Draco kept murmuring, but now Draco was shaking too.

“You’re… you’re n-not like your father,” Harry found it in himself to say. “Never…”

Harry could feel the shudder that ran through Draco’s body. They were so close, and Harry wanted… he wanted…

“Draco…” he breathed, and somehow Draco seemed to know what he needed because then they were face to face, breathing the same air, and Draco was kissing Harry.

Soft lips, wet against his, the taste of salt and yearning. It changed him. Before, as he’d been told as a child, his worst fear had been fear itself. He’d learned to battle the darkness, had dealt with being alone just fine. But everything was different now, and he could tell because he was no longer most frightened of fear. He was frightened of losing Draco.

He had desperately tried to hide how he felt toward Draco, before. But Draco’s lips were moving slowly on his, changing him, tearing him up inside, and all he could do was hold on and kiss him back. Draco made a quiet noise in response that sent his heart into overdrive, tugging at him in a direction he hadn’t known he wanted to go. “Mmph,” he sighed. Everything was Draco, and it was okay.

But then Draco stopped kissing him, and pulled away. “I can’t… Harry…” And he was trembling, his face scrunched up, hurt.

Harry reached out. “No, don’t…” another shiver wracked his body. “Don’t leave… why?”

“Because… I love you,” Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he pulled his arms around himself. “And you don’t… I can’t… not if you don’t…” He shook his head, swallowing thickly, and it hurt Harry to see the hurt on his face.

Harry almost couldn’t think straight, because he needed Draco, needed to be in his arms again. But Draco was turning around and walking away, and Harry couldn’t move.

xXx

He’s having trouble moving because it’s so cold in the house. The heating charms seem to have broken. “I don’t know what’s happening,” Harry shivers against Draco as they lay in bed.

Draco kisses his forehead, pulling Harry closer. “You know what’s happening,” he murmurs. “It’s because you need to leave.”

Harry tenses. “I told you not to say that.”

“It’s the truth, Harry!” Draco sits up, staring at him urgently. “And if you don’t want to leave…” He trails off, looking conflicted.

“What?” Harry’s voice trembles.

“If you don’t leave, then I will.”

No. No. No. Harry’s mind tries to shut the thought away, but he can’t.

“Why?” he finally cries out, burying his face in Draco’s chest.

But Draco doesn’t answer.

It’s pouring outside, and somewhere in their bedroom, the roof has sprung a leak. Harry can hear it dripping, tapping, counting down the time until he loses Draco forever.

xXx

It took not even a day of Draco avoiding him before Harry wanted to scream. Draco wouldn’t even look at him, and he couldn’t bear it; it showed him more than anything that he’d grown to rely on Draco far too much. He craved Draco’s smile like he used to crave pictures of his parents and real, true friends. And when Draco kept averting his gaze, kept turning away, it hurt.

By the time they were both back from dinner the next night, Harry’d had enough. Draco had immediately locked himself in his room upon returning, refusing to glance at Harry even once. With that on top of already having a bad day—Harry hadn’t at all been able to concentrate on anything Professor Langley was saying, making his training for the day effectively useless—he almost wanted to cry.

“Draco?” Harry knocked tentatively on the other boy’s door.

No answer.

He gritted his teeth and turned the doorknob.

“Go away,” Draco said, his voice muffled by the fact that he was burrowed in his covers, face pressed into his pillow.

“Draco…” Harry said again, and the name came out as more of a sigh than anything. He walked over and slowly, tentatively sat down on the bed beside him. “I miss you,” he whispered.

“Well, I’m right fucking here. What do you want?” Draco turned his head to face Harry, and he looked fierce, eyes suspiciously reddened.

“…You,” Harry admitted. “I want you…”

“Horny, are you?” Draco rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Not interested in casual sex.” He turned his head back to his pillow, and Harry groaned in annoyance.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Not at all—and not that Harry wouldn’t want that, because Draco was… Draco. But the wanting was so much deeper than lust, than the casual interest Harry had felt in the beginning, and he had no idea how to even begin describing it.

Draco didn’t respond, so Harry crept closer. Slowly, slowly, he climbed into the bed and laid down next to him, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Why are you still here?” Draco mumbled. But he wasn’t telling him to leave, and Harry could feel his warmth even through the covers, so he felt a little more okay.

“I told you,” Harry said, his breathe coming out ragged. “I need you.”

He could feel without looking when Draco rolled to face him again.

“If I asked you to have sex with me right now, would you do it?” Draco asked suddenly.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. “I… I don’t know… I don’t…” he trailed off, torn between the selfless answer and the truth.

The truth was that he wanted it. The wanting burned inside him, an intense urge he hadn’t remembered to think about at all until Draco had kissed him so many months ago. But it wasn’t about sex; it never had been. It was about him needing to touch Draco and hold him and be held in return. It was about needing Draco to see him and love him through all of his imperfections.

He needed Draco to love him, even if Harry didn’t feel sure enough of himself to love him back.

But the answer to Draco’s question was still burning in his lungs, so he sighed and opened his mouth. “…Yeah.”

The guilt ate him alive, but he couldn’t lie. Not to Draco.

Draco didn’t seem fazed. He stared into Harry’s eyes, gaze steady and fierce. “And if I told you that you are the most important fucking person in my entire life, and that I need you to leave because it hurts too much to see you right now?”

Harry began to tremble. He didn’t want to leave. But he couldn’t say he loved Draco, not without being able to follow through—he thought he could love him, but only in another universe where he didn’t have sadness hiding in every corner, ripping at his insides and diminishing him until he didn’t even know who ‘Harry’ was anymore. Grief had halved him as a person, making him unfit for love—even love from the only person who knew him best, who didn’t care about the dark parts inside of him.

Harry closed his eyes.

Harry said nothing.

A tense moment ticked by, in which Harry’s head grew muddled, filled with such shame that he wished he was nothingness, and Draco breathed so quietly that Harry could barely hear it.

Draco heaved a shuddery sigh. “If you’re not going to leave, then fuck me.”

Harry’s eyes flashed open, and he trembled. “I… I can’t.”

Draco expression was filled with tiredness, sadness, and a longing that threatened to shatter Harry if he were to try to understand it. “Why not? You said you would.”

Even though his heart was burning and his jaw felt like it was glued in place, Harry had to answer. “…Fuck, Draco, you… you’re the only person right now who actually fucking gets it, and… I need you with me. So if… if fucking you is going to make you go away… I can’t…” he whimpered, his voice rasping into nothingness.

Draco looked like he didn’t know what to say. And then he did, and his face was crumpling, and his words were “Why can’t you love me?”

A sharp pain lanced through Harry’s body, something akin to being hit with three Stunners at once. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

But then Draco composed himself, and Harry could almost imagine he hadn’t said anything at all.

Draco gave a hard swallow. “Don’t answer that. Just… I want you, all right? And… I won’t go away, if we have sex. I… promise,” he said slowly, earnestly. He bit his lip and pulled the blankets off of himself, shifting closer so that their bodies were almost touching.

And Draco looked so vulnerable that Harry almost couldn’t stand it.

A thought seemed to occur to Draco, and he looked away. “If you don’t want to… Sorry, I assumed…”

But Harry did want to, and it was killing him, burning him from the inside. Because Draco was… Draco was everything, and Harry craved the closeness of it, craved Draco’s body in a way that he’d never known before. But nothing could keep this from causing Draco pain, not with Harry being too broken to love him. Harry knew without even thinking about it that it would tear at Draco’s emotions just as the thought of going through with it at all was tearing at Harry’s heart, shredding it into tiny pieces.

So why would Draco want it? And there was really only one answer to that, because Draco wasn’t expecting Harry to love him in return.

He just wanted Harry to pretend.

And even though it burned, Harry knew he could do it. His feelings for Draco were so close to love that it was no problem at all imagining a world in which Harry wasn’t too fucked up to feel happiness. Sitting next to that on his shelf of feelings for Draco was the lust that had been there since their first kiss, the lust that he’d always been too scared to face because meant that he would have to care. But it didn’t matter anymore; he already cared.

He heard Draco draw in a deep breath beside him. “It won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Draco whispered, and Harry knew he was lying but was helpless to resist the desire in his eyes.

“You won’t leave?” Harry asked, feeling warmth pooling in his groin despite the rapid incineration of his heart.

Draco shook his head, and then he pressed his thigh forward so that it brushed against the growing bulge in Harry’s trousers. “I won’t leave.” Harry couldn’t stop himself from letting out a faint whimper, and he saw Draco’s pupils widen until the black almost obscured the grey. “I… really want you,” Draco breathed.

“Okay,” Harry said, then whispered it again. “Okay.”

In the split second before Draco kissed him, Harry could see a look on Draco’s face that was trapped between elation and despair. But then all Harry knew was the soft and mesmerizing touch of Draco’s lips, and he allowed the sensation to consume him, pushing aside the guilt for now. That would come later, and in full force, he was sure.

The last bit of convincing that Harry needed was the soft moan that came from Draco’s mouth when Harry started truly kissing him back.

It was odd then, because after that, Harry felt sort of like he was floating. He could feel the cool press of Draco’s mouth, the soft slickness of Draco’s tongue, but the turmoil of his emotions added another dimension to it all that he couldn’t quite process. And then Draco was on top of him, pressing him into the mattress in a way that allowed no room for Harry’s misgivings. Suddenly, Harry’s clothes were all too much in the way, because he needed to feel Draco in the way that he couldn’t feel anything else.

“I need—“ Harry said, scrabbling at the buttons on Draco’s shirt. Draco let Harry take his shirt off, and then his trousers and pants, and then he did the same to Harry so that by the end of it they were naked and pressed together completely, eyes avoiding marks and scars and anything that could disrupt the closeness between them.

Draco’s kisses grew more urgent, his tongue swiping into Harry’s mouth as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste. And Harry understood. God, Draco...

“I’m going to touch you,” Draco said.

“Yeah. Okay,” Harry said, and then he shut his eyes because Draco’s fingers were trailing down his stomach…

Was this what burning alive would feel like? Sadness and heat and Draco’s hand around his cock? Because Harry felt like he was on fire, and every touch left a searing trail on his skin. But it was good, so good, and all he could do was let himself burn. “Mmph, Draco—” he gasped at the feeling of warm lips on his neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” Draco said, and Harry couldn’t understand how Draco could think that when Draco was… perfect. He was perfect, really.

Draco kissed him breathless, and then he slid down and took Harry’s cock into his mouth.

And Harry disintegrated into ash.

xXx

Draco fucks him, in their cold and colorless room where the leak in the ceiling has only gotten worse. It’s a last breath of happiness, a last memory of what could have been. Harry knows it’s ending.

It doesn’t stop him from giving Draco everything he has.

“I love you, Harry. You saved me.”

Harry wants to cry, because he doesn’t quite think that’s true, but Draco insists that it is.

He doesn’t want to argue, so he kisses Draco, trying to hold on for as long as he can.

From far away, he hears music playing. He shuts his eyes.

xXx

The next morning, Harry woke up in Draco’s arms. They were clothed again, though Harry didn’t remember getting dressed, and Draco was looking at him strangely when Harry turned around.

“Are you okay?” Draco said, and that struck him as odd. Shouldn’t that be Harry’s question?

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why?”

Draco bit his lip. “You were… spaced out for a while, you know.”

Harry supposed that was probably true. “Sorry, it was just… you know,” he flushed. It had been Draco, Draco surrounding him and holding him and loving him that made everything go so hazy.

Draco nodded in understanding. “Okay. Sorry,” he murmured, and Harry shook his head.

And then it dawned on him—Draco hadn’t left. Draco was still here, and he hadn’t left, even though they had slept together… He had promised, after all, but Harry still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Draco,” he breathed, and then he buried his face against Draco’s neck.

A warm hand slid into his hair, and Harry let himself feel relieved. He’d consider his guilt later.

They were cautious around each other in the days afterwards. Not silent, because Harry didn’t think he could bear that, but he knew that they were both tip-toeing, hiding from truths that didn’t want to be said.

And Harry did feel guilty, extremely so. Because Draco loved him in every little glance, even as he poked fun at Harry or nagged at him for leaving his socks around the main room.

Draco’s love was like the sun, he decided. It was warm, breathtaking; it put sparkling happiness into a life that had lacked it in the year before. And it was always there, even when Harry wasn’t looking, even as the summer drew to a close and they got closer and closer to the start of term.

But a few weeks before the Express was set to arrive, Draco started getting nervous. “What if I’m an awful teacher? I don’t even like kids,” he confided one night after dinner.

“You’ll be fine,” Harry reassured for what was probably the tenth time that week. “Tell you what? Why don’t we go to London on the weekend? We’ve been stuck here for a while.”

Draco looked surprised. “You hate leaving the castle,” he pointed out.

“But you need to get out,” Harry shrugged. “You’re going crazy in here.”

Draco sighed, shifting against the couch. “Yes, but… I’m not too eager to go out and have everyone call me a Death Eater, either.”

“We could wear disguises. C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Harry smiled.

“If you say so,” Draco said, letting his head rest on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s heart bloomed with happiness.

Later on, Harry couldn’t even recall why he thought it would be such a good idea to go out. He wish he had listened to Draco, and they had just stayed in, because then everything would have been fine.

Because that was the turning point. Everything went downhill after that, everything became so awful that Harry couldn’t fucking bear it.

And the funny thing was that they had a perfectly fine day in London. They wore disguises and meandered around Diagon, buying things for the school year and for Draco’s potion stores.

It wasn’t until they got home that they found out.

xXx

Harry can’t find Draco. He’s looked everywhere. Draco is gone.

Sometimes he thinks he hears Draco’s voice, in corners and behind doors, but he looks in the corners and opens the doors and Draco is nowhere.

Frantic, he runs to the pool, sobbing. It happened too fast, Draco left him too fast.

He throws open the sliding door. Outside, a thunderstorm is raging, and the pool is empty.

Harry is empty.

He sinks to his knees, not even caring that he’s getting wet. Draco is gone.

And Harry is left here, alone, with no way to return home.

xXx

Someone rapped sharply on the door of their suite. Harry quickly got up from his spot on the sofa next to Draco and went to open it.

McGonagall was behind it, looking furious. “Mr. Malfoy,” she sidestepped around Harry. “Where were you this afternoon?”

Draco stood up, looking mystified. “I was at Diagon with Harry. Why?”

“Were you seen?”

“No. We were in disguise,” Harry stepped closer to Draco. “What’s going on, Headmistress?”

McGonagall turned on Harry, eyes flashing. “And did you leave his side at any moment, Mr. Potter?”

Harry thought back. “No. I didn’t.” And they really hadn’t—they’d even gone to the loo at the same time, though only out of necessity.

McGonagall deflates, letting out a long sigh. “All right, boys. I believe you. Sit down.”

They sat warily, and Harry had to resist the urge to slip his hand into Draco’s. “What’s going on?” he repeated.

“It seems you two are unaware of what happened today, so I’ll tell you. This afternoon, there was a magical bombing just outside the Leaky Cauldron,” she said gravely.

Harry lets out a small gasp.

Hanging her head, McGonagall continues. “Twenty Muggles were killed.”

Fear trickled down Harry’s spine like the dripping of a cracked egg. Beside him, Harry felt Draco start to shake. “What does that have to do with Draco?” he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“They think I did it,” Draco muttered bitterly from beside him.

“No, they wouldn’t—!” Harry started, but the look in McGonagall’s eye caused his words to stop mid-sentence.

“I regret to say that solely because he is the last known Death Eater that is neither dead nor incarcerated, the Auror force has slated Mr. Malfoy as the culprit.” She sighed. “You two picked the wrong day to go to Diagon, it seems.”

Harry did grab Draco’s hand, then. “That’s ridiculous!”

“You two know that, and I know that, but the Ministry doesn’t seem to care. We’ve tried to reason with them, but they won’t listen, and… I’m terribly sorry, but there are Aurors on the way here to apprehend Mr. Malfoy as we speak.” She looked down, mouth tightened into a thin line. “I will continue to say anything I can in your defense, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve been an excellent trainee, and neither of you have shown any signs of trouble this summer. There’s not a doubt in my mind that you were not the orchestrator of this monstrosity, but the Aurors will be hard to convince.”

Harry thought back to all the Death Eater trials of the past year. Of all of the Death Eaters, only Draco was pardoned, and that had been because he was a child in the year of his initiation.

But then, later on, the Auror force had found reasons to accuse anyone and everyone who had even associated with the Death Eaters. And everyone had turned a blind eye, hadn’t they? Even though it was obvious that the methods of the Auror force weren’t exactly ethical, no one had cared. They were part of Voldemort’s team. They deserved it. Person after person had been prosecuted, and they always lost their trials. And no matter what they had originally been pulled in for, the sentence was always life in Azkaban. The Wizengamot was ruthless.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

They shouldn’t have gone to Diagon. No, Draco should have left for France with his mother. Harry shouldn’t have forced him to stay...

But then, “No...” Draco whimpered, and Harry’s chest seized.

“Headmistress… You can’t let them take him!” Harry cried, feeling panicky. “They’ll find some way to throw him in Azkaban, you know they will!”

McGonagall looked severely frustrated. “At this point, I’m not sure Minister Shacklebolt himself could do anything. But I called the Minister to my office just in case, so come along before the Aurors get here,” McGonagall said, already heading swiftly to the door.

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Harry breathed, leaping off the couch to follow her and pulling Draco with him.

But as McGonagall left the room, Draco stopped in his tracks. “Harry…” His voice came out as a wispy croak, sounding as if his throat had constricted so much that he couldn’t speak.

Harry turned around. Draco’s face was as white as a sheet. He looked as if he might pass out. “Draco. We’ve got to talk to Shacklebolt. He can help us, I know it.”

Draco shook his head, starting to shiver. “No one will listen. I shouldn’t have stayed here, Harry, I shouldn’t…!” He let out a strangled sob. “I haven’t had time to stop being afraid…”

Time, they needed more time…!

He pulled Draco close then, and both of them were shaking. “I won’t let them take you,” he tried to promise.

But that promise meant nothing.

And only a short while later, Harry watched them take Draco away. McGonagall couldn't do anything. Kingsley couldn't do anything.

Harry wanted to scream.

xXx

From far away, Harry hears music.

He opens his eyes, blinks once, twice. For one moment, he can see the pool, the rain, the house of his dreams. The next moment, all he sees are white, shining walls.

He shuts his eyes again, but the song continues on, so he relents to the whiteness, squinting into it and wondering if he’s at King’s Cross again.

It’s not King’s Cross, though. It’s only St. Mungo’s.

He tries to sit up but can’t—he’s too weak. Why is he here? He doesn’t remember being here. Did Draco bring him here?

The music stops. He blinks again, trying to focus on the source, but it’s futile because he can’t turn his head to see where it had been coming from.

“Harry!”

That voice, he knows. It’s Hermione. All of a sudden, her hands are clasping his, engagement ring sparkling in the light.

He shuts his eyes. He’s got the worst headache of his lifetime, and his body has protested every time he’s shifted at all.

He wants to say “What’s happened to me?” but can’t. His mouth won’t move.

Hermione knows what he’s thinking (she always does), so she answers the question anyway. “You were asleep, Harry, and you wouldn’t wake up. Everyone’s so worried about you. We… we thought you were finally getting better! You seemed so happy, the past few months, but right before Malfoy’s trial… What went wrong?” she asks him, bags heavy under her eyes and mouth tight with worry.

“...Before Draco’s… trial…” Harry finally is able to speak, voice coming out only as a rasp.

He can’t remember at all. He can remember going with Draco to London, and speaking with McGonagall about something afterwards, but beyond that…

“Harry, you have to!” a memory shines through. And then another, and another, and everything comes flooding back, every thought and every emotion and the face that he loves, tainted with absolute terror—no no no no, Draco, no!

He seizes up, unable to process it, barely even able to think it—how did it come to this? Why was everything so wrong? Nothing could ever be right again, not without him, not without Draco…

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione squeezes his hand with concern, but he doesn’t deserve such comfort.

“You’re… wrong,” he forces the words out through his aching throat. Unconsciousness is already spiraling in the back of his mind, and he’s grateful.

“What? Harry! Don’t fall asleep, Harry, you need to stay awake!”

“Draco… didn’t have a trial…”

“What do you mean, Harry?”

“Because he was scared of losing... his mind… so I killed him.”

xXx

“Harry, you have to,” Draco whispered urgently, hysterically. His hair was lank and oily, prison robes too large around his shaking shoulders.

“You’re fucking insane,” Harry shook his head, but guilt is swimming in his head and his chest and all through his veins. But still—“I can’t!”

“You can. Harry, you don’t even…” Draco’s crying now, sobbing, knuckles white around the bars of his cell. “You could get away with it. They let you bring your wand in without even asking, didn’t they? Just say you were getting rid of the last living Death Eater, and they’ll pardon you. They’ll fucking applaud. So just do it!”

“Draco—“ Harry paused at the sound of footsteps, but the guard passed by their hall without even looking, repelled by the full-strength Notice-Me-Not charms. “You don’t understand, Draco. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I. Am. Not.” Draco spoke through gritted teeth. “Harry Potter, I am going to Azkaban. For life. Don’t you get it? The fucking Minister couldn’t get me out of this. And I don’t want to rot in there, Harry!”

“You won’t. You won’t,” Harry shook his head in disbelief. No, no, it was impossible, this couldn’t be happening… His ears fill with a strange buzzing sound, the embodiment of his distress in the form of noise. “And… and you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” he choked out, eyes filling rapidly with tears. “I can’t do that. I… I love you, Draco, so I can’t…!”

“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Draco shouted. “You’ve never loved me. You’re too fucking wrapped up in yourself to even open your eyes! You’re not allowed to love me now, so stop!”

“But you…” Harry sobbed openly, biting his knuckle so hard that he might have started bleeding. “You l-love me… don’t you? Why don’t you want…? We slept together, and—“

“What the hell are you talking about?” Draco sneered at him. “Are you serious? We never fucked, if that’s what you mean.”

“But—“ Harry said, and then his mouth clamped shut in a wave of overwhelming incoherency.

Draco face contorted, warped with fear and anger and distress. “Just. Fucking. Do it. Kill me, Potter. Save me. That’s what you like to do, isn’t it? If you love me, like you’re saying, then do it. Or…” he shuddered as a sob wracked through his body. “Even if you don’t love me. It’ll be better this way. I can’t…” And his face crumpled. “I can’t go to Azkaban, Harry, I can’t, the Dementors will suck out my soul and I won’t remember anything and I won’t remember you anymore Harry, please please save me—“

Everything slowly clicked into place as Harry realized that keeping Draco from this oblivion was more important than facing his own. Because he did love him. And it hurt deeply, so deeply that Draco wouldn’t accept it, but Harry’d only just realized it after all. He supposed it couldn’t be helped.

He was thinking quite logically for someone who was about to kill the man they loved, wasn’t he? But it was okay. Something had blocked off his emotions, and he was filled only with white noise, with thoughts of a happy Draco and a whisper of grass in a world that could have been.

“Okay,” Harry said, half hoping Draco wouldn’t hear him. But Draco’s rambling cries ceased.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, eyes drifting shut with relief.

And Harry’s own heart breaks.

Harry was still crying, but he could no longer feel his tears. He couldn’t feel his wand either, even though he knew it was resting loosely in his hand. He tightened his grip.

“One thing, Harry…” Draco spoke again, gaze piercing him suddenly. “I-I… I’m sorry. I lied before. I’m… I’m really happy that you love me. Even though you’ll… y-you’ll be sad, but… You’ll lose me either way.”

And one emotion, love, did swell above the buzzing in Harry’s ears, protecting him from the awful truth of what he was about to do. “I’ll n-never forget you,” he said, trembling, wetness dripping from his eyes and nose. He felt like he was drowning.

“I love you,” Draco sobbed.

“I love you, too,” Harry cried, and it was true and real and Harry would never, ever forget.

Draco closed his eyes.

Harry leveled his wand.

xXx

He’s swimming in the sea of white noise. Or maybe it’s the pool, where he’d been with Draco for so long. But even though he wishes that were the case, he knows it’s not true.

“Harry, mate,” says a voice, and then another. “Harry!”

But don’t they see? It’s so much easier to be here, floating, than anywhere else.

He tries to resist, but they insist on pulling him out, no matter how much he struggles. And when he breaks the surface, Harry remembers.

He fights it. He doesn’t want to remember, not at all, but they’ve poked and prodded and now he can’t fall back into oblivion anymore.

So he lies there. He hears people talk around him, but the full meaning doesn’t register. It’s just bits and pieces.

“…magic… with grief… buried under it…”

“’Mione… need sleep…”

“…thinks Malfoy’s… have no clue…”

“…deluded himself…”

And then one voice breaks through in a particularly shrill shout: “Get him out of there! Don’t you understand?!”

Briefly, Harry is curious. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere except Mungo’s. He wonders what they want to get him out of, and why. He’s awake now, isn’t he? What more do they want?

Strangely enough, a few days follow during which barely anyone visits his room. He’s glad of the quiet; now he can float in his pool of guilt in peace.

Toward the end of the third afternoon, several nurses come bustling in. They seem to be preparing another bed. He’s glad. Maybe having a roommate will keep everyone from pestering him quite as much.

But when he wakes up the next morning, in that bed is Draco.

He immediately dismisses it. He’s had time in the quiet to piece together the whispers; he knows he’s delusional. He’s even started to figure out what had been real and what hadn’t.

Draco had loved him. That was real. And Harry loves him too, so much that he can’t think about it without starting to cry.

But they hadn’t slept together, and all of those days by the pool had been a lie. It was a hologram, constructed in Harry’s mind from a story Draco had told him months ago about having a Malfoy property in Wales. That much, he’s been able to garner from the murmurs of the people around him—it seems he’s been lying in this hospital bed for a month, a long month where he dreamed dreams of Draco so real he’d thought he’d been living in them.

Nothing is easy. Nothing will ever be easy again.

The fake-Draco in his room is bed-stricken for many days, and then he starts sitting up and eating and occasionally staring at Harry. Harry stares back. He’s not afraid of his demons anymore.

It’s comforting to have that Draco there with him. Harry had promised never to forget about him, and now he never can. He’s stuck with a wonderful, brightly haired vision of the man he loves.

He thinks he can live with that.

xXx

“Harry!”

A fierce whisper startles him from a nightmare. It’s his Draco, there to protect him. He smiles.

His Draco climbs into bed next to him, and Harry allows it, because he’d give anything to feel Draco holding him again—

But something’s wrong.

This doesn’t feel like the Draco from his unwaking dream. Draco’s arms wrap around him, and there’s something so solid about the touch that Harry flinches away.

His heart starts racing. Has someone Polyjuiced as Draco, just to calm Harry down? It’s a brilliant idea, maybe one of Hermione’s, although he wonders how they found out about him and Draco having been lovers. But now that he’s realized the truth, he feels uncomfortable with someone else in his bed, and he starts to shove away.

“Harry. Calm the fuck down.”

Harry stops.

God, the voice is just right. The words are just right. He’s changed his mind; whoever is doing this is acting like Draco just to torture him, and now he’s going to go insane with this Draco being so close to the real one—

Draco kisses him.

Harry freezes.

No. No. This has to be a fake, which means it’s all in Harry’s head, and he can’t do this anymore, he can’t kiss Draco _knowing_ _what he did to him—_

Harry cries out, and Draco pulls away, looking stricken.

“Sorry,” Draco mumbles. “I thought... I... Merlin, I’m sorry.”

And even though Harry was the one who wanted him gone, he misses him when he walks away, misses him so much he could die from it.

xXx

Fake-Draco has started talking to him.

Harry’s imagination must have gotten better at this, because fake-Draco talks about things that sound realer and realer by the day. He tells him about time spent in Azkaban, stories that make Harry feel ill—but he deserves this, doesn’t he?

What kind of sick fuck kills their lover?

And he tells him other stories too, stories from Hogwarts, stories about his Father and Mother and so many other relatives that Harry can’t even remember them all.

Idly, he wonders at the sheer amount of information his brain is creating. He’s never known any of these things about Draco, and one night, he remarks as such.

“Your stories are—a lot more creative now than they used to be,” he murmurs. “Almost as if I’m not imagining you.”

Draco stops right in the middle of a story about one of the first times he went flying, staring at him, eyes wide.

“No, no, I’m sorry I interrupted,” Harry croaks, his voice hoarse. He rarely uses it anymore. The only person he would want to talk about is Draco, and all he has of Draco is this fragment his mind has created.

“Harry,” Draco says slowly. “Do you think I’m... not real?”

“Of course you’re not real,” Harry mumbles, scoffing.

But something feels different, and for a brief second, he’s not so sure.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco says, and when Harry looks at him again he’s sitting up, disbelief in his eyes.

And then Draco gets up, sliding out of bed, and walks over to sit on Harry’s.

“Touch me,” he says, holding out his hand. “How could I not be real?”

“I touched you well enough when we were at the house in Wales,” Harry points out sullenly. Still, the lure of Draco’s warmth is too strong to ignore, and Harry carefully pushes himself up, sitting back against the pillows and reaching his hand toward Draco’s.

It’s warm. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he could believe.

“Wales,” Draco says, sounding surprised. “I told you about our summer house there, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Harry says, which is stupid because fake-Draco would already know that. “You were there, and then you left.”

“Oh,” Draco says softly.

Harry opens his eyes, tracing them over Draco’s sharp features. His hair has only started growing back after the fire incident, back when he had to cut it shorter than usual to fix the damage.

Harry blinks.

The fire.

The fire...

“Your hair,” Harry says, squinting at it. “Did you cut it?”

Draco scrunches his brow. “Yeah, after the fire,” he tells him. “You knew that.”

Harry chokes out a gasp.

Fleeting images of Draco, lying in the pool, flash before his eyes. And another memory, a memory of Draco tying his wet hair back and Harry laughing because he looked rather silly, and another again of Harry carding his fingers through it after they kissed—

Draco had long hair in his dreams.

But that would mean that for some reason Harry’s vision had changed, or—

Or it would mean the one thing he’d thought was impossible.

He tears his hand away, tears springing to his eyes. “You’re supposed to be dead!” he croaks wildly. “You can’t—you can’t be here, you can’t!”

Draco claps a hand over Harry’s mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “I’m not supposed to be out of my bed.”

Draco removes the hand, and Harry stares at him “You can’t be alive,” he says, starting to shake. “I killed you.” His voice is rusty, but it pours out of him now, forced out of him because he’s becoming more and more convinced that Draco’s here and Draco’s alive—“I killed you before you went to Azkaban. You—you asked me to, you needed me to, and I _did it, God—”_

“You never killed me, Harry.” Draco’s gaze is strong and steady, and Harry _knows_ , the force of the truth knocking the wind out of him.

Draco... is real.

This Draco in front of him is real.

Harry’s mouth drops open. And then he shudders out a sob. “H-how? Why? I thought... I thought I did it, I _remember doing it!_ ”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Harry,” Draco says, shaking his head. “I… I wanted you to, but you didn’t. Couldn’t. You blacked out right in the middle of the conversation. I think it was too much for you—it was your magic, they said.” Draco averts his eyes. “It wouldn’t allow you to do something you so strongly abhorred the idea of.”

It’s too good to be true, isn’t it? That Draco’s really here?

A wave of nausea rises in his stomach then, because that would mean Draco’s stories from Azkaban are _real_ , he would have had to go and face the Dementors and have every happy thought wrenched from his body and Harry didn’t do _anything_ to stop it…

His dismay must show in his eyes, because Draco takes him by the shoulders and squeezes. “Listen. Don’t you fucking regret keeping me alive, okay? I should never have asked you to do something so awful, but I did, because I’m fucking selfish. I wasn’t thinking about how you felt, not really, and I regret it.” Draco lets go, face stricken with guilt, and in his eyes Harry can see the same vulnerability he feels right now.

“But... but I couldn’t save you,” Harry protests feebly.

“But I’m _alive_ , Harry. And I’m done being afraid.”

Harry’s stunned. “Really? But the dementors... they’re awful, and you had to—you were trapped there, you—”

“It was fucking terrifying,” Draco says. “I’m not going to lie about that. But I was _okay_ , because they... they couldn’t take you from me, and you’re what mattered the most.”

Harry is shocked into silence.

Draco bites his lip and continues. “It wasn’t exactly happy memories I had of you, was it? I mean, there are happy ones, and those got taken, and it fucking sucked. But...” He sighs. “You never said you loved me, Harry.” He shivers slightly. “They couldn’t take you from me. I was so sad to think I’d never be with you that they left some of those memories with me, and being sad about you made me remember that I must’ve loved you a whole lot to feel depressed about it, and that’s—that’s what kept me going,” he says, voice fading into a whisper.

But Harry _had_. He told Draco he loved him, right before he—

Right before he killed him.

Then it dawns on him. He’d blacked out before he’d said it, hadn’t he?

He can recall the buzzing now, the white noise that filled his ears in the moments before he cast.

He’s never told Draco he loves him.

And Draco is staring at him, eyes wide in uncertainty. “Harry...”

“I love you,” Harry blurts out.

Draco lurches forward and hugs him. Draco’s hair is prickly in his face, and then Draco’s leaning up and kissing him again, and it’s…

It’s so much better than being with the Draco in his dreams.

Harry slides his hands up to cup Draco’s face, gasping against his lips, but he’s surprised to find tears against his fingers.

“Shut up,” Draco murmurs into his mouth, even though Harry hasn’t said anything. “God, I thought I didn’t have a chance…” he shakes his head, trembling. “Oh, shut up, Harry!”

Harry lets up a frantic, disbelieving laugh, and then he closes his mouth and loses himself in Draco.

xXx

The hospital bed is much too cramped, but it’s not so bad, lying side by side with Harry’s head pillowed on Draco’s shoulder. Harry thinks that any place at all with Draco in it would probably be markedly improved, but especially right now they’re alone and warm and it’s perfect.

“You didn’t even have to think about saving me, and yet you did it anyway,” Draco says, looking at him contemplatively. “Bloody savior complex. Does it even in his sleep.”

Harry wrinkles his nose at him. “I had to go crazy in the process, you know,” he points out. “But... I’d do it over again, you know? Insanity isn’t so bad if it means that I—that I get to keep you.”

Draco shoves him lightly, grimacing. “That’s disgustingly sappy and you know it,” he complains. But then he laughs, and Harry joins him. It feels strange to be laughing again.

“It’s true,” Harry tells him, and Draco shakes his head and lets it slide.

“Really though,” Draco says, voice growing quiet. “I’ve been thinking about—about seeing a Mind Healer. After we leave the hospital, I mean.”

Leaving? It hadn’t even occurred to Harry that they’d have to leave anytime soon, and a sudden fear strikes him, leaving a pain flaring in his chest. “Hey… they aren’t… They aren’t going to throw you back in Azkaban, are you? They won’t take you away again?” He sits up, heart pounding erratically.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Draco says, giving him a small smile. “They won’t.”

“So they—they cleared you?” Harry asks, still feeling trembly.

“Yes,” Draco says. “It was your friends’ doing. Ginevra, actually.”

Harry lies back down, confused but relieved. “Ginny? What did she do?”

Draco’s fingers tightened on his arm. “When you got sick... she figured it out, that we were—that we were romantically involved. Or she guessed, at least. And she thought that bringing me back might fix you, so they pulled me out of Azkaban.” He scoffs. “Turns out that your well-being was worth enough to the Ministry to rethink the charges… That, and they found the real perpetrator of the bombing, so I suppose they didn't have a choice but to let me go.”

It takes a moment for everything to sink in. Then it does, and he feels so happy he could cry.

Draco’s _safe_.

“Oh Draco... Remind me to thank Ginny,” Harry says, and then he smiles brighter than he has for a long while.

“You won’t need reminding, I’m sure,” Draco tells him, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple, and Harry sinks into him, feeling fuzzy with happiness.

“…About the Mind Healer,” Harry says after a moment. “You’re going to see one?”

“I want to get better,” Draco tells him, nodding. “And as much as I liked being around you when we were helping each other, I still... I need help.” He swallows, looking nervous, and then he says, “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but will you... will you see one too?”

It’s not something Harry’s ever considered. But he can admit that he needs it, because he’s not okay, not right now and maybe not for a long while. “...Okay,” Harry agrees, because he wants to be better too, he truly does.

“Okay,” Draco says, smiling softly. “And in the meantime, we can finish prepping our lesson plans. First term started a week ago, you know.”

“They started without us!” Harry complains, put-out by the thought. “Well, plenty of professors arrived late when we were in school. It should be fine, right?”

“That was during a _war_ ,” Draco says, giving him a look. “But, oh, you’re the great Harry Potter, so I’m sure you can convince them to do whatever you’d like them to do with your charm and wit and famousness—

Harry cuts him off with a firm kiss, laughing, and Draco responds easily, so easily. Harry basks in the warmth of it, of fragile love and of Draco, here and real beside him.

They kiss and kiss, and if he thinks about it hard enough, he can almost smell chlorine.

But he doesn’t need dreams of the blue of the pool anymore—Draco is real and in front of him, and Harry is happy.

Slowly, breathing is getting easier, and everything is good.


End file.
